It's Regency LoveActually
by FromTheAshMeadow
Summary: A combination of well loved characters from a mixture of Jane Austen, Jane Eyre and other Regency Classics set in the modern day story lines in the style of Richard Curtis' Love Actually. Intertwining relationships is a messy business in modern day life, how will the characters of our much loved Classics survive the perilous journey that is our modern, tempting era? Read & Review!
1. Foreword

Foreword

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when the world is in a gloomy state, thinking about a place filled with hope can suppress any opinion that we are living in a world of hatred and greed. Think of your home airport, the busy churning out of humans trying to make their way home. But don't see it as a mass production line of frequent flyers trying to boost their miles. Instead try to think of each person individually. Some will be flying to business meetings, holidays or seizing new opportunities on distance shores. The main majority of flyers however, will be flying back to loved ones. Love after all is everywhere. It's not newsworthy, or fascinating by any account, the love shared between people. But it's always there, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, even old, perhaps forgotten, friends. When a tragedy strikes in the world, we see it, not hate nor revenge – but simple love. If you look for it, you'll find that **love** **actually** is all around.


	2. As In Every Story We Have Our Beginning

"Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings."  
** Jane Austen**

* * *

The recording studio was dull. It had the distinctive scent of old damp and it was incredibly cramped, but it was just enough for Emma and three backing singers to fit into. Through the grubby glass George Knight winced as Emma hit bum note after bum note. They had booked a two hour session in Hart Studios, half of that time had passed now and they had gotten nowhere. George gritted his teeth as the music started up again. Emma's Christmas comeback was never going to happen, it seemed.

Emma had her game face on when she grabbed the microphone and began to sing, "_Candles burning low, lots of mistletoe…" _By the time she hit the chorus,the backing singers were being to fade out as they watched the once great Emma Woods hit wall after wall on the singing scale. George had to stop her before she strained her voice even further.

He gave the signal to stop and began to talk through the two way speaker, "Okay, Emma I think that's going –"

"No, no, I'm going to get this right," Emma said interrupting George Knight, her manager, "Even if it kills me. Start again."

George was worn out. They had been here all afternoon. The studio bills were racking up and the staff sat around him looked just as fed up as George, even though he tried not to show it. Emma needed this big break. She had been a teen idol with a bright future ahead of her and then it seemed as if fate struck an unlucky blow to Emma. It started a sore in her throat and then it turned to surgery. Many singers could have recovered quite easily, but for some reason Emma didn't. Or simply wouldn't.

The music started again, and you could almost imagine the great Stevie Wonder was about to fill the grubby studio but instead Emma Wood and her now cog-churning voice replaced any hope of restarting her career with painful tinnitus. The ringing continued as she sang on. It wasn't like Emma was happy about being placed back in the limelight – or wanted to be there. But she had to, and that was that.

_All these things and more, darling_

At the high note, Emma screeched and began to cough like she'd been a hard smoker for fifty years. And she was only twenty-five.

"Shit, bugger, crapping piece of crap, wank, arse and hole!" she stammered out through each chesty cough. The three backing singers moved back from the convulsing, swearing Emma Wood and pushed themselves even further into the small, dingy corner.

George brushed a hand through his mop of grey streaked hair as Emma cleared her throat and start to sing again. The mechanical tones blasted through the speakers and into the recording booth. Everyone in the booth winced as she tried and failed to hit the high note again. Poor buggers, George thought. Everyone knew it was going to be some work trying to get her voice back the way it had been three years ago, the press knew it, her fans – the few she had left – knew it and even her own father knew it. But Emma if anything was determine, even if that determination was misplaced.

Miss Bates, George's assistant, came forward from her hubby hole behind the decks and handed George his somewhat stale coffee. He took it anyway and drank deeply. He needed as much energy as possible working with Emma Woods. They had both known each other when they were younger, even with their considerable age difference. Miss Bates, too, they had known from their former years. She was a close friend of Mr Woods, Emma's father, and Emma had taken misplaced pity on the downtrodden woman and had begged George to take her on. Of course he had obliged, after all Miss Eunice Bates was a friendly woman, who had expressed deeply that George was not to address her by her first name as it was unprofessional to be addressed so by someone whom she was employed by, and she did not very much like the sound her name on the tongue. Yes, Miss Bates was a tolerable woman, even if her conversations had become increasingly prolonged over their time together.

George drank the last dregs on his lukewarm coffee, and turned to his faithful assistant. She looked like she needed ear buds but apart from that she was bearing up rather well. As frail as Miss Bates looked, George knew she was made of stern stuff.

"This is shit, isn't it?" he blurted out, looking at Miss Bates side on as he grasped the desk with both of his hands, holding his weary body up.

Miss Bates looked rather flabbergasted to have been chosen to answer such a question. "Well….Mr Knightly, Miss Wood has had a hard time lately. I think she is doing remarkably well…" she trailed, unable to really fully answer the question with whole honesty.

George smiled, "The truth, Miss Bates. It will not get you fired."

Miss Bates tucked a muddy brown piece of hair behind her ear, "It's pretty shit, sir."

George chuckled.

* * *

"I'm going to be extremely late."

Charlie Bingley rushed around his cluttered living room, kicking about all sort of discarded items, CDs, washing, magazines, in order to find the partner of his scuffed brown shoe that was lurking somewhere in this massive pile of rubbish that was his home.

"Don't worry, you'll make it," his girlfriend, Katya, said as she sat upright in their upturned bed, her nose bright with cold. She shrugged, "It's just an engagement party anyway, and it's not like it's that big of a deal." She sneezed profoundly and Charlie smiled at the cuteness of her sneeze. He had met Katya by accident, through his sister Caroline, at one of the many office parties she'd dragged him to over the years. It was lucky that Caroline had forgotten her scarf that chilly November night when he'd point blank refused to go to another work related party that wasn't his own, (which for a lonely writer, an office party was most gloriously infrequent), and Charlie had been so brotherly to take it to her that night when he'd bumped into the lovely red-head that was Katya.

Struggling to keep hold on his one remaining shoe and lift a built up pile of laundry, he faced Katya and with a mouth full of dirty washing, he asked, "Are you sure you don't mind me going without you? I could easily stay…" He said as one smelly sports sock fell into his open mouth. Yuck.

Katya coughed and sneezed to almost emphasise her illness, "No, you go. I feel horrible. I would only infect the others at the party. And that's not a way to meet your friends for the first time!"

Finding the partner of his scuffed, brown shoe, Charlie sat on the bed and started to lace up his newly found shoes. "I love you," he said jumping over the bed and giving Katya a nice kiss on the lips.

"I know," she said looking like she was about to sneeze out a good one, "Now, get off me before I infect you too!" She pushed him off her with what little strength she had and leaned back onto the bed frame, her Ramones top poked out from the duvet as she slumped.

Charlie laughed, and bent over for another kiss, "I love you even when you could infect me and look disgusting." He grinned sheepishly, feeling as happy as a clam. With that, she threw a pillow into his grinning face.

"Get out! Or you will actually miss Marianne's engagement!" She through another, smaller pillow at his retreating frame that hit him square in the back. Katya relaxed when she heard him open the front door, only to look up at his mop of blonde hair hanging from the bedroom door frame, grinning like a fool.

"Did I mention that I love you?"

Katya screeched and threw another, harder pillow at him. "Yes, now get out, you idiot!"

* * *

"Janice, it's me again. Sorry for pestering you. I actually don't have anyone else to talk to." The sad voice said down the phone even over the sound of chattering and clanging of glasses.

Janice Bennet was sorry for her dear friend but she could do anything else right now, her three girls where staring at her like she had just popped out of hell and declared herself a she-wolf. "Absolutely. Horrible moment, though. The girls have something to tell me. Can I call you back?

Brandon coughed down the phone, "Oh yes, of course."

Janice smiled sadly at her friend's wretched voice. They had been good friends for years now, as close as brother and sister. No matter what tragedy they had gone through, they had always found some sort of camaraderie with each other. "This doesn't mean I'm not terribly concerned that your wife died."

That made Brandon laugh – a little anyway. It was good to hear him laugh even if it was brief. "Completely understood." he said, his voice sounding a tad bit stronger after a chuckle. "Right then," he said dismissing her from her friend duties "Er, see to the girls, I'll get back to the party. So bugger off, call me later."

With that he hung up.

Mary, Kitty and Lydia were still staring daggers at her. Patience was not one of Bennet virtues. Especially since hitting puberty the girls had become almost unbearable to control, according to Janice's husband anyway. For being sisters and closely related in age, you would think that their fancies would have collided somehow or even influenced each other. However, that was certainly not the case with the three remaining Bennet sisters. You could scarcely find more conflicting sisters if you scoured the entirety of the British Isles. Janice was unsure what Mary had gotten herself into, but since she hit the age of seventeen her clothes had somehow become darker overnight. It was as if she had dyed her entire wardrobe black in the wash. Her hair too had undergone a drastic transition to a moderately nice shade of brown to a fierce shade of purple. And she listened to some man screaming at her and actually called it _music_. How that could be music? Janice thought. Surely it must be a mistake. Whatever happened to the bouncy beat of Wham and Duran Duran? The sound alone of Mary's favourite band, Cradle of Filth, made Janice's nerves race and call for a large dose of Horlicks to sooth her tampered nerves.

Kitty too had been induced to a teenage cult known as a "Beliebers." Her shared bedroom with Lydia was covered in the she-boy's face and every song she sang was of the Belieber variety. Lydia and Kitty had always been firm friends, and Kitty still doted upon her younger sister, but they were at logger heads when it came to fandom.

Mary, strangely enough, was the only sane on of Janice's three remaining girls out of her original five. Elizabeth and dearest Jane had both grown and moved out of the family home. They were not settled properly though, they did not have husbands. Or even boyfriends to Janice's knowledge! They had, like their father had prompted them, chosen to take the academic route – more so for Lizzie than Jane it seemed. Jane had left university as it was not for her, and decided to try to be a live in domestic. She was currently in-between jobs. Lizzie however was born it seemed for the world of politics. Goodness knows when she would ever settle down! For Janice, family live was essential and even though she was proud of her girls achievements she wished they would just hurry up and settle down before both her and their father kicked the bucket!

Janice turned to her girls, "So, what is this news!?" she exclaims happily knowing exactly what the news could be.

Janice looks to Mary first. She blushed but stays quiet. Next, she looks to Kitty who is looking rather too excited to even try and talk. Finally, her eyes land on Lydia who is sitting with her legs sprawled over the table, chewing some sort of substance. Lydia shrugs and then rather beams brightly, her teeth gleaming whiter than usual because the purple shade of lipstick she has gone for today.

"We got the parts!"

In unison, mother and the three daughters scream and dance merrily in their kitchen.

* * *

"Best sandwiches in Britain, I'll have you know, made by de Bourgh catering. Yes, the finest…." Colin stood there with the canapé platter gleaming in his right hand as people came and went, taking sandwiches, muffins and any miniature items of food they could carry in one hand, but all the while ignoring its holder. He had been a waiter for almost six months now, ever since his last short-lived attempt at serious career failed miserably due to a rather compromising predicament with a cucumber…the less said the better. Colin shivered at the unwanted memory as the jazzy tones of _Venus_ by Bananarama filled the off white party room of the Curtis Hotel. In his designated section, Colin bobbed along to the song, mining along. He rather liked his song. However, it seemed that none of the guests were at the dancing stage yet…but Colin was. Quickly he looked around. He was unobserved. With a little bob of his head, he shook his hips and spun channelling the great John Travolta. It was an innocent dance, necessary when a good tune was on, however it hadn't gone well with one of the guests. One old winkled woman lifted her thin eyebrow at him…and that was it. It was like he was invisible. Not that they had barely noticed him before. Colin didn't know if it was just his bad dancing, his little stubby form or the pre-wedding atmosphere around him, but it seemed that people in the UK forgot about the service industry. He was being overlooked left, right and centre. To be honest, he knew he wasn't the best waiter in the world. After all he was standing in the corner, swaying slightly to the pop music in the background, making the guest come to him than rather the other way round.

It was rather unfair life, Colin thought as he looked at the vicar talking to be soon-to-be married couple in the centre of the white washed room. Colin had always thought he would have excelled at become a priest. All the sermonising and confessions, if it was one thing Colin liked to do, it was talk. Talk about anything, everything and that was infuriating him right now, that no one wanted to talk to him! –

Out of the corner of his eye, Colin spotted the founder of be Bourgh catering – Catherine – staring at his motionless state with her small grey eyes from the stainless steel kitchen door. Suddenly, he bolted out his daydreaming riven and set himself to work. Right, he thought, time to mingle. With a large gulp, Colin plucked up the courage and walked out into the crowd of family members and friends of the betrothed couple.

He located and engaged his target, a group of older looking gentlemen and ladies – no doubt the grandparents and great aunties and uncles of the couple. With a smile on his face, Colin approached the company and asked, "Try some of my lovely nuts?"

He immediately regretted it.

He practically ran to the next group of unknowing victims, "Beautiful muffin for some beautiful ladies?"

What was _wrong _with him?

Verbal diarrhea, that's what!

* * *

Brandon sipping the free, sparkling concoction in his hand looked over at the pitiful waiter and his attempt at apology to Marianne and Willoughby's family members. Oh, goodness the man was terrible in public. Brandon had observed him from afar dancing to the DJ's poor selection of 80's hits. And even now, the mixt tones of Madonna's _Like a Virgin _beat out of the sound system, making the poor man's pathetic farce look even more painful. Brandon could see his strain from how he was sweating and holding his tray at a precarious angle over Marianne's mother's head. He fumbled again and again trying to apologise to Marianne's mother for his rather hapless behaviour. He was failing desperately and Brandon could not help but watch. It was quite comical, if excruciating to watch. However, Brandon had been caught. It was just too hard to look away. It was like a train-wreck, utterly unfortunate but never-the-less fascinating. Entertainment even, seeing him trying and failing to remain calm as he dug deeper into the hole he had created. With a twist on his hand in his pocket the fellow gave into his nerves and with a twist of his round face he began to ramble on about the excellent de Bourgh sandwiches and how they are made. "Would any of you lovely ladies…oh and men, hello there sir, like to try one?" Brandon heard him say. Poor man, he had mistaken Willoughby's aunt as a man. This was truly not going well for him. And then it got worse the tray spilled all over the floor. And all over Mrs Dashwood. Oh bloody hell.

At that, Brandon jogged quickly over to the scene to prevent the sweating waiter from doing any more harm, like trying to wipe Mrs Dashwood's chest where most of the spillage was concentrated. He grabbed the man's arm, my god it was sodden with damp sweat, and placed it neatly at his side. "That will do, I think, mate. I'll get the rest of this, you take a break. You look worn to the bone." Brandon bent down and began to clear the clutter from the floor. The ladies around him were praising his well-timed interruption and he nodded gently at the acknowledgement. It wasn't as if he had saved them from certain death, just a clumsy waiter with no personal boundaries.

Brandon smiled as he thought about the silliness of the situation. Eliza had always said that he was born to help everyone and never himself as he had always, even before they were married, gotten himself into situations very much like this one. Eliza would have found it rib shakily funny. If were still alive that is….

He wasn't sure how it happened but as soon as he thought about Eliza and her laugh, the world seemed to grow darker and he had almost forgotten about the waiter, the spilled food and the onlookers. He didn't even notice the waiter being scolded and dragged away by his boss. Nothing seemed to matter, because Eliza wasn't here. She hadn't been here for almost two years now, and she wasn't ever going to be there again.

And then suddenly, the world reemerged and Brandon was soon up on his feet staring at by his best friend's soon to be wife, Marianne, who was staring before him a little worried crease marring her smooth brow. He barely realised that it was John himself, not Marianne, who had pulled him up from his crouched position on the floor or even that it was his hand still placed on his shoulder steading him. No, he could see nothing but the pale blue ovals staring back into his muddy brown eyes. There was a small sadness in her eyes that he couldn't place, and soon it was gone as the noise and chatter of the room crashed back into his hearing. John was speaking and probably had been for some time. It sounded like he was asking something, if Brandon was feeling alright or not.

Brandon replied with a cough and an "I'm alright" and then excused himself from John, and especially Marianne's, presence with the excuse of getting another drink. He wasn't sure where his last one had got to. And he didn't really care.

"I told you that he didn't like me." Marianne said when Brandon was just out of ear shot.

John snorted and pinched his young bride's chin, "Oh darling, of course he does. He's just having a bad time, all of this," he gestured to engagement party, "it's probably bringing back memories of Eliza."

Marianne nodded slowly at this, "Oh, how could I have been so stupid."

"It's not your fault, lovely, you have only known Brandon without Eliza. You didn't see them together. He wasn't always as grief-stricken as he is now." John watched his friend from across the room. Brandon had managed to find the bar, but hadn't yet acquired a free drink. "He had a lot to deal with, especially with little Martha – it's hard for him to watch Eliza child grow up without her being there. It's been nearly two years already."

With a sad glance, John left his future wife with a kiss and walked over to his old friend who was now leaning on the bar staring blankly at the barman. John patted Brandon on the back jolting him gain from his thoughts, and addressed the barman, "Two Tiger's, please mate."

Brandon laughed, "I don't really feel like drinking today, John. I think we can agree that we both had enough last night."

John laughed, taking one of the Tiger beers that the barman had placed in front of them, and drank. "I can agree with you there." He leaned with his back towards the bar and looked in the general direction of the main bulk of the party, and Marianne, "You should be proud!" John slapped Brandon on the back, finally getting a smile out of his old friend, "You threw a great stag night. Who knew you had it in you, old man." John winked.

"Not that old, surely?" Brandon took a sip from his bottle, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

John chuckled. His friend had always been sensitive about his age. Even though he was only six years older than John himself, even if he was only in this thirties and John his late twenties, Brandon had always been conscious of his age. "Still hung up on nearly hitting forty?" John asked, knowing he would trigger a reaction and distract his friend from his dark thoughts.

"I'm only bloody thirty-five!" Beer spittle flung out at his outrage as he stared outraged at his soon-to-be-ex-friend. When he saw John's cheeky smile tugging tauntingly at the side of his mouth, Brandon punched him not so lightly in the arm, "Sod."

John rubbed his arm with fake hurt. When sympathy failed, he smiled and dropped his arm to chug at his bear again. John had always been able to drink Brandon under the table even after a decade of friendship. "Right, no surprises then?" he asked.

"No surprises." Brandon confirmed.

"Unlike the stag night…" John asked dubiously, praying that Brandon hadn't hired _that _again.

"Unlike the stag night."

"So you admit that the Russian striptease had been a mistake?" John asked, laughing under his breath.

"I do."

"And it would've been _slightly_ better if they hadn't turned out to be men?"

The music lulled then and the backing of the Beatles _All You Need Is Love _filled the room. Brandon turned and faced the dance floor, addressing his friend "That is very true…now keep your eyes fixed, Willoughby," He pointed to the middle cluster of people, the one which included Marianne and most of her close family members, "Right, there." At first John mistook Brandon for pointing directly at Marianne, but it was event that when it happened, it was in fact Marianne's younger sister, Margaret who began to sing.

And then the singing flash mob began.

Marianne clapped along with glee as John joined her, with the jeering encouragement of the guests, in the middle of the singing, dancing flash mob surrounding them. Marianne, over the blur of singing, mouthed, "Did you do this!?" with glee. John shook his head and they both gazed over at Brandon who was still standing in his original position with the Tiger beer in his hand. He raised it with a small smile to the happy, loved-up couple.

* * *

"Prime Minister, a word to the public!?"

"Prime Minister! Over here!"

"Prime Minster!"

The clicking of cameras and the shouting from the tabloids continued until the new Prime Minister entered the door to 10 Downing Street, not before giving a decent short wave back at the public as he stood at the threshold of his new home for hopefully the next five years.

Caroline Bingley, the new Prime Minister's head of press office, greeted him at the door with her welcoming smile. "Welcome, Prime Minister." She stressed the last title. Caroline always looked prim and meticulous. And today wasn't an exception. Her auburn hair sat neatly platted and tied in a bun at the back of her neck, emphasising her noble nose. The high collared white blouse and grey skirt ensemble she had specifically chosen to wear at the PM's side.

The new PM William Darcy, of course, hardly noticed, as his emotions were running high at this very moment, his victory. Not that he would let anyone see that he was positively bubbling up with searing joy. However, William Darcy – even with all his mental protestation – couldn't help but smile. Finally after all these years, he was finally _here_. He looked around the house, which would soon become his home, for the first time and took it in with an unbidden thrill. However, joy had never been part of his political persona. He had been branded in the media as the no nonsense politician that was going to get things done, set the country to rights. It had been a big weight that was placed on his shoulders, but he hoped he could live up to it. It was a big leap of faith.

Darcy looked back at the big black door knowing that, even though the door blocked out any outside noise, the press and public hounded outside both praising him and waiting for his first major cock up. "I think I need to work on my wave." He said to no one in particular. Caroline simply smiled and said, "Would you like to meet your household staff?"

Darcy focused back in, his usual demeanour kicking in, "Yes," he said, "Yes, I would like that." Anything to put of actually running the country, Darcy thought to himself. He stretched out his arms and straightened his suit ready to address the small line of people that had gathered in the next room.

Caroline addressed a rather stout man with soft grey hair and a ruddy complexion, "This is Terence. He's the man in charge." Yes, he looked very much in charge.

Terence nodded and smiled, "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Terence." He replied. Damn, he was nervous just meeting his staff. Darcy couldn't keep in control enough to say something pleasant to Terence who was standing there rather expectantly. What was running through him right now was a combination of nerves, excitement and elation that he had never quite experienced before and it was knocking his equilibrium for six. Darcy was strangely conflicted as to how he should present himself in the public eye and how he was back in his modest London apartment or with his sister, Georgie. He couldn't quite get to grips with the idea that this was now his working space and next door was his private place to retire after running the country. Darcy smiled at Terence, and decided that this was his home now, might as well be some resemblance of his natural self in order for the staff to get along with him. "Nice to meet you Terence. Had an uncle called Terence – terrible man, hated him – liked the Brown Ale a bit too much. But I very much like the look of you." Darcy smiled. _I should have kept my mouth shut. _Poor Terence didn't know how to take that little piece of information. He stood there quite awkwardly until a little suppressed laugh squeaked out from the end of the line…

William Darcy's eyes followed the giggle that his ears detected before the entire of his household staff and Caroline joined in politely. His rich blue eyes met with a pair of deep pair of chocolate brown ones. His gaze trailed to down to the rose red lips that smiled so brightly, it cause a dimple to crease above of an exquisitely formed jawline. He dared not to meet the girl's eye again. He stood rather rigidly at the spot in front of Terence. At that small bit of contact, Darcy had become completely undone. He held his breath and blinked twice. Bugger.

Caroline stepped forward then, and introduced Anne Reynolds. Strangely enough, Anne Reynolds reminded Darcy of his old nanny – surely that was a good sign? She was plump and had a warm face with greying hair that had the faint traces of bright red streaked through it. Anne indeed was lovely, but it was the woman he was due to greet next that made Darcy's palms clammy. Caroline continued the introduction and Anne greeted William warmly, "Good morning, sir. I'm the house keeper."

"Ah right," Darcy smiled politely, "Well, no mess from me I should think. I'll be a lot easier than the last, no nappies and all that. Although, you may have the comings and goings of a teenage sister to contend with." He said warmly.

Anne seemed to enjoy that, "It's not like I haven't had to do it all before, sir." There was a little laughter again from the general assembly. This was going rather well, Darcy thought.

"Good, good." Darcy said happily. And now…

"And this is Elizabeth. She's new, like you." Caroline said standing in front of Elizabeth. _Elizabeth_, the name ran around in Darcy's mind and he very much liked the sound of it. Elizabeth was average height, standing to about Darcy's shoulder, and was wearing a red jumper that made the fair paleness of her skin, her hair and her fine eyes stand out. It flattered her curves in all the right place…. It was a remarkable colour for her, seasonal even. William's eyes were unable to stop from wandering to her slinky hair that hung down like a dark curtain spilling over onto her shoulders. It reminded him chestnuts warming up on the fire at Christmas. Darcy had been mistaken about the chocolate eyes. They were indeed brown, but they had a fiery almost orange-red brightness to them. And they were completely captivating. Her face was small and round, her mouth likewise small. The traces of dimples still showed even when her face relaxed, exhibiting a care-free allusion to probably all that met had met and have yet to meet her.

_Darcy, get your head out of the gutter man!_

Suddenly focused, he greeted Elizabeth. He was sure no one had noticed his unprofessional manner. Even if they had, he doubted they would mention it…maybe. Right, he was here to do a job, nothing more and no trivial matters such as this.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth smiled and he was sure she nearly curtsied but stopped herself just in time. "Hello, William," she said almost as if she didn't realise that she had called him by his first name. When she did, she her cheeks grew slightly red and her dimple in her left cheek revealed itself. "I mean, sir. Bollocks, I can't believe I've just said that….Oh and now I've gone and said "bugger". _Twice_." Elizabeth was becoming increasingly rumpled and red by the second. She could feel her pale cheeks growing bright. She couldn't believe this, and on her first day! Her father would be laughing at her right now, her mother – it did not even bare mentioning – would be mortified. Janice Bennet had warned Lizzie before entering into the service of Prime Minister, not to make a fool of herself in front of the single Prime Minister (after all, her mother said, he was bound to win over that other decrepit fellow who was in charge) as it would not do to shame the family. Honestly, sometimes it was like her mother had been brought up in a bloody regency novel. Elizabeth looked at the Prime Minister and then his PR woman, the stern Caroline, and then back at the PM. "I'm so sorry, sir." She said with her hands placed to her cheeks ready to shut herself up physically if needs be!

The new Prime Minister simply smiled, rather unsympathetic Elizabeth thought. "It's fine," he said not really looking at her but perhaps above her. Elizabeth didn't know what was so fascinating about the top of her head… He continued, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment, "After all, you could have said "cock" and then we'd all be in for it," he said with a trace of humour it seemed but it didn't seem as if he fully understood Lizzie's embarrassment. She was sure the woman, Caroline snorted a laugh. But the other members of the household, who seemed to like their new boss, laughed jovially at his remark.

Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. Everyone was laughing, she hadn't made an absolute fool of herself. And anyhow this was the man that made her get into politics. William Darcy MP had framed her belief that not all politicians were slimy gits with tiny pricks and too much (or it seemed nowadays not enough money) to throw at the country. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt secure. Her embarrassment faded with the kind laughter of those around her and then it came rolling out.

"Thank you sir," she said as the laughter started to die down. "My father did say that he wouldn't be surprised if I completely fucked up on my first day." And then the laughter fell. There was a mixture of silence and disbelief in the room. She could almost hear their minds cringing as they relived her last sentence. And then her next one. "Oh, cock!"

She didn't even dare look at William Darcy's face. Or Caroline Bingley's…or even Anne, Terence and the rest of the assembled staff.

Caroline smoothly interceded. "Right then, let's fix the country shall we?" she asked/announced with a little alert clap. William Darcy snapped out of whatever ravine his mind had gone to, "Yes, why not!"

Caroline led the new PM into the next room, explaining that the party were waiting for him in the next room. The door had been open so they would of easily heard Elizabeth's mortification and utter humiliation. What was she thinking, saying "shit", "fuck" and "cock" to the man she had become to idolise?! Anne placed a comforting hand on Elizabeth's shoulder and hugged her.

"Did you see that?" Elizabeth asked already knowing the answer but doubting that the incident ever actually happened. "Did it happen?"

"Yes and yes. We all saw and _heard_ it, love," she said with her arm still securing around Elizabeth's shoulder. Lizzie wasn't sure how she was reaching there, she was quite a small woman but she was very grateful.

"I just went "blaggghhh" and it all came tumbling out…"

William Darcy embraced his friends and party in the next room with Caroline beside him. However even with the door opened just a tiny amount, it gave him full sight of the swearing Elizabeth – the newbie, just like him. And it was her he kept his eye on until the party moved further into his new home.

* * *

**AN**: Sorry for the delay! Work and life in general is just plain hectic. I know this is only a small chapter simply introducing some of the plot lines and the characters that are involved, but I hope you do enjoy it and review and such things! I'm still not entirely happy with this chapter and no doubt I shall change it - as I am never quite satisfied with it, but darn I needed to put something up there and not leave it hanging with just an intro!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Love Actually the film, or the script and any lines used or plots have been slightly changed for copy-write

THANK YOU! 3


	3. The Pangs of Love

**"Friendship is certainly the balm for the pangs of disappointed love." **

**Jane Austen**

Charlie had already politely excused himself from the engagement party just as the flash mob began to form a singing human circle around Marianne and John. People had already started to dance and even a few (a drunken few) had started to chime along with the acoustic version of the Beatles track. Luckily for Charlie making himself scarce had saved him, and the rest of the guests, the embarrassment of showcasing not only his deafening tones, but also his eye-watering dance moves. Eye watering in the sense of being borderline dangerous; not only had he already damaged someone's cornea by preforming the classic Travolta disco move on a night out, he had done it twice. Charlie didn't want to send anyone to casualty tonight. It was Marianne's night and as her cousin, he had a family duty to not cock it up. That meant no singing either. All of the family knew that he was a bad singer. That had been obvious when he was around eight years old and had managed to get himself kicked out of the _voluntary _local parish choir. And so, even though Charlie could not join in, that did not mean that he hadn't enjoyed it!

In fact he thought it was a rather splendid thing that Brandon did for his friend. John had never been one to think ahead. From what Charlie could see John Willoughby was very much a man of the moment – spontaneous and romantic, and rather good friend when it came down to it– but Brandon had always been the constant in the enduring friendship. Willoughby could come and go as he pleased, making friends with whoever and where ever he went. Brandon on the other hand was fiercely loyal to those he loved, and would always be there for them to rely on while never overstepping or interfering, if he could help it. All of this information had been kindly and happily presented to Charlie by Mrs Jennings, Marianne's landlady, who had been circling the buffet table with her son-in-law John. They had caught Charlie in the process of tasting his first crab-cake from the buffet and by the time they had finished talking not only where the crab-cakes now cold on Charlie's plate but his stomach growled so loudly it threatened to end to the gossiping completely. Even though Charlie had been happy enough to chat, he rather wished that he had been able to sample at least some of the food.

As Charlie strolled back in the direction of his house, his stomach still grumbling with hunger, he wondered how John and Brandon's friendship would fair with Marianne in the equation. Charlie was sure that Brandon didn't particularly approve or even like his lovely cousin. Whenever she was around it wasn't exactly unnoticeable that Brandon would either ignore her or excuse himself, discretely of course. If any conversation was directed at him, he was polite, but on any other occasion he simply stayed mute. According to Mrs Jennings, many thought that seeing Willoughby happy and settled with Marianne reminded Brandon of Eliza and placed Brandon's indifference as mourning. However, after the months passed, it genuinely seemed as if Brandon did not like Marianne in the slightest. But then again, Brandon was a shy man like Charlie. And shyness can sometime be mistaken as being standoffish. After all, his cousin wasn't the most patience person. Even Charlie could understand that.

It was remarkable how much unless information could be picked up at family functions, especially with the Jennings and Middleton's around – which they usually where. Charlie hadn't even asked for it, and he found out all the ins and outs of the family and their friends. If he had wanted to know Brandon's shoe size Mrs Jennings would have happily supplied the answer, he was sure! Not to mention that if his absence was noticed by either side of the family, then he was pretty much done for. Caroline could get away with not being there as she had more important work to do, what with working for the PM and all. However, a sickly girlfriend wasn't a real excuse to miss the party. He was sure that Marianne in the grand scheme of things wouldn't actually mind. She was a sweet romantic at heart, and Charlie checking up on Katya in her book could be forgiven. Anyway, he would sneak back in soon and all would be well.

With that thought out, Charlie whistled along the street adjacent to his own, carrying a plastic container of Katya's favourite doughnuts that he's picked up on his way back (he was still hungry after all and was sure that Katya wouldn't eat all of them). Surely this was going to make her feel better? It normally did when she had one of her fits of foul temper or had been on one of her fad diets for months!

Pushing the keys into his front door, Charlie watched as the bottle green door slowly swung open on its own. Thinking nothing of it, bar his own forgetfulness, he stepped inside into the warmth of his one storey flat and walked straight into the slightly rounded frame of his brother-in-law, Jeremy Hurst!

"Bloody hell, Jeremy, what the hell are you doing here?" he said with a smile. Charlie didn't notice Hurst's ruddy, exerted-looking complexion. Nor did he see the bra hanging causally over the sofa. He was just smiling happily at his brother-in-law, very glad indeed to see him.

Jeremy looked slightly lost for words, "I…just popped round for some DVDS." He pulled at the hem of his t-shirt and looked down at his socked feet. Charlie smiled brightly, placing the doughnuts on the side cabinet, along with his keys, "The lady of the house let you in, did she?" he asked. "Jolly obliging girl," he said as he took off his tanned winter coat and flung it over the brown leather sofa. "I just thought I'd pop back from the party when it was quiet and she how she's doing…" He nodded to the doughnuts sitting next to the keys as he shuffled through the pile of DVDs and handed a couple to Jeremy, "These are good…" Jeremy took them wordlessly and simply gulped down the air that had been constricting his throat. Jeremy's eyes darted to his other items of clothing which had been flung haphazardly around the living room, particularly at his trousers which were straddling the TV. He gulped again.

Charlie frowned at his brother-in-law's uncharacteristically skittish behaviour and shrugged, "You know, I've been thinking and I really think we should do something for Louisa's birthday, I feel like Caroline and I have been bad siblings?" Hurst's blank face stared through Charlie and at something in the corner of the room. Following his gaze, it landed on a pair of abandoned trousers hugging the TV in the corner of the room. It was only then when Charlie noticed his brother's lack of shirt, socks and for that matter, trousers...

With a crumpled up, slightly horrified face, Charlie's mind put the pieces together...it was only cemented with the shout from the bedroom.

"Come on, big boy! I want you at least TWICE before Charlie gets back!"

And with that, he squarely punched his brother-in-law in the face.

* * *

"I've worked out why I can't find true love…" Colin said as he slid into the front seat of his friend's Astra 2000. He'd just been fired and his friend Henry had been hanging around in the kitchens flirting his way through the waitresses when Colin came in red-faced and covered in canapés followed by his boss from de Burgh catering companying looking like she wanted to hit him with a rolling pin. Quickly Colin ushered him out, grabbing his coat and backpack before his ex-boss could fling any more venomous words his way. With the slam of the door, Colin left his catering job and poor Henry left all the luscious waitress/aspiring actresses. He didn't even get the number from that Maria girl… Damn Colin, he'd always been cramping his style since primary school.

Henry grumbled under his breath at the ridiculousness of this situation and started up the car, "Why is that?" he said not really interested in hearing Colin's sermon on the depravity of woman again. Henry very much liked woman and all that came with them.

"English girls! They're stuck up—"

"Not this again, Colin" Henry said shaking his floppy mane of black hair as he pulled away from where he was parked and joined the road.

"No, you see, I am primarily attracted to girls who are homely, none of this London-lifestyle, high-flying woman nonsense!" Colin said gestating wildly in the passenger seat.

Henry snorted, dodging Colin's flying fists as he stopped at a set of traffic lights, "Then go to the country! I know a lovely country girl, Fanny – don't let the name put you off mind…unfortunate family – I often fancied asking her out myself you know –"

Colin wasn't listening at all, already the ball was rolling around in his mind like a dug beetle and a silly plan was forming. "Like American girls!" he exclaimed cutting Henry short, "So I should just go to America! I'd get a girlfriend there instantly. What do you think?"

"I think it's crap, Colin!" Henry laughed as he eyed up one of the female pedestrians walking across the road.

Colin was completely oblivious to Henry's wandering gaze and focused at the task at hand. "Ah, but there's where you're wrong, my puffed peacock friend." That remark had Henry's attention. With a raised eyebrow, Henry turned to his pug-face friend and waved his hand elegantly for him to carry on, "Please do tell."

The traffic lights had already turned back to green when Colin turned triumphantly to his friend and smiled, "American girls are suckers from a cute British accent – and I happen to have a cute British accent!" Furious horns beeped in the background. Both of them ignored it. Henry was flabbergasted at Colin's idiotic plan. "You don't have a cute British accent!"

"Yes, yes I do!"

"No, I have a cute British accent. You should like a fog-horn with a cold."

"I'm going to America!"

"Colin, you're a lonely, ugly arsehole. Accept it." Henry said with a shrug, rolling down the window to stick his two fingers up at the prat behind him who was a little too keen with his horn. "Compensating for something, you prat?" Henry shouted at the man behind in his the Vauxhall as he waved his fingers back and forth at him.

Colin was still in his bubble of happiness, staring off into the distance as he said, "Never. I am Colin, God of Sex. I'm just on the wrong continent, that's all." With that declaration he pulled an errant hair from his nostril and Henry drove off.

* * *

"_Eliza and I had a lot of time to prepare for this moment." Brandon said as he stood in front of the black polished coffin, at the podium, wringing his hands together nervously. It was only the little doe eyes of Martha – his stepdaughter – staring back at him that kept him from breaking down and weeping profusely. He coughed clearing his throat and ignored the stinging in his eyes. "Some of her requests, like that I should bring Emma Thompson as my date to the funeral, she knew I would stoutly ignore." There was a sad laughter from the congregation. He saw Janice sitting with her daughter Mary and she smiled sadly back at him. "However, others she was pretty damn clear about. When she first mentioned what is about to happen now, I said 'Over my dead body.' and she said 'No, Brandon, over mine.' And as usual, my darling Eliza…and Martha's mum was right. So she's going to say he farewell to all of you, not through me but, inevitably, as in Eliza's style, through the genius of the Bay City Rollers."_

Bye, Bye Baby_ emanated in the small church, as_ _Brandon and the pall-bearers dressed in their customary black attire, went over to the coffin and braced it, holding it above their shoulders. As the song continued, Brandon with his arms shaking and his heart aching, carried the coffin, and his wife, out of the doors and out into the church yard…_

"Bye, bye baby, baby goodbye…" played in the background as the happy couple danced and laughed along with their family in the middle of the dance floor. Brandon was awash with painful memories of the last time he had heard this song. The pain was clear on his face, although to any outsider it looked as if he was directing his grief towards the newly engaged couple. He was sitting, facing them with a commandeered video camera, which John Middleton (and unknown relation of Marianne) had thrust upon him when he had grabbed his rather dour looking wife to get up and dance, pointed towards them. Thank god, he had not brought Martha when Willoughby had insisted. Even though, it had been already two years since her mother's death, Martha it seemed was not coping well. Even now, at twelve, she had taken to locking herself in her room for vast periods of time.

It was getting late, and the party was officially winding down. Brandon knew that soon he would have to go back to an empty house, since Martha was away at Eliza's parents for the evening. The thought clogged his throat and he tugged at the unfortunate tie that he been forced to wear by Mrs Dashwood, Marianne's mother, and loosed it around his neck. Still holding onto the video camera, he had managed to get a few good shots of the couple dancing and laughing. At the thought of those pearl-like orbs staring back at him, he could hardly breathe. He loosened the tie again, and pushed that invading thought far, far from his mind. That thought was unacceptable. Brandon shook his head, and rushed a quick hand through his mop of greying hair.

"Do you love him?" a blunt voice said to the side of him. Brandon jumped slightly and looked at the plain woman beside him, who had pulled one of the table chairs to sit next to him, and was staring at him with both curiousity and with compassion.

Rather confused by this plain, mousy woman's sudden appearance, Brandon frowned. "Sorry, what?" He switched the camera off and placed it on the confetti covered table behind him.

The young woman moved back slightly, making sure she didn't collide with his outstretched arm and settled back into her seat to become more comfortable. "No, I – I just thought I'd ask the blunt question in case it was the right one and you needed someone to talk about it and no one had ever asked so you never have been able to talk, even if you wanted to." Her pale face has an air of determination about it, and of a sensibility that was far beyond her years.

Brandon wanted to laugh but not at her. She has slightly rejuvenated him in a way. This pale created had made him want to laugh at the situation he had found himself in, that half of the guests probably thought him infatuated with Willoughby! Oh, how wrong they were, made him want to laugh. Brandon turned to the girl, completely serious, "No. No is the answer. Absolutely not."

The girl with a glint of something in her brown eyes asked again, "So that's a no then?"

Brandon breathed out slowly, trying not to laugh, "Yes…" The girl got up slightly to leave, brushing off her brown little dress, and Brandon stopped her. "So, this DJ, what do you reckon? The worst in history?"

She sat back down again, crossing her little arms over her small frame, her eyes assessing the DJ in behind the booth. "Probably. I think it all hands on the next song choice."

With that, the DJ came to the microphone and addressed the dancers, "Now here's a special song for the lovers," he said winking down at Marianne and John who were so engrossed being in each other's arms that they barely noticed what song came one next, "That's quite a few of you, I should think." And then the song came on.

Both Brandon and the girl grimaced, wrinkling their noses like they'd smelt something foul, when the song started: _Puppy Love_ by Donny Osmond. The DJ however, looked like he was enjoying himself immensely. He looked rather emotional, and Brandon was sure he could see the guy welling up was the lyrics kicked in.

"He's done it, it's official." Brandon said, leaning back into his chair.

"Worst DJ in the world." The girl seconded. They both smiled.

"Brandon Connolly," Brandon said in way of introduction, putting his hand out towards her.

The girl smiled slightly, "Jane, Jane Eyre. Janie for short – even though it's actually longer," she said taking his hand in greeting. Brandon smiled at that, a nickname longer than a name.

"Nice to meet you, Janie."

* * *

**A/N : It's a short one this time. Things have been pretty hectic. But I hope you guys of the Fan-World like it! **

**I added Jane Eyre (and possibly Rochester ;) ) into this story, because Jane Eyre one of my favourite books of all time and I love the characters so much that I just couldn't put them away. They were nagging at me, day and night, night and day to be put in this story - even if it's a small part of the story. And if you know the film Love Actually, you can probably guess which couple's storyline they will follow :D hint hint! **

**Also, any hardcore Jane Eyre fans, I am sorry for calling Jane Janie - but all these characters have the SAME NAMES! Far too many Williams, Johns, Marys and Janes to keep track of! So if you spot a character who's name has been erm...altered, it's just to make it easier to follow the story :p It's for you guys! And partly for me, cause I'll just get confused! Any confusion, just PM me! **

**ENJOY!**


	4. Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt

"**Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure."**

**Jane Austen**

* * *

Harry Bennet lent over his rather cluttered desk, staring at the stack of papers that he needed but didn't necessarily want to pick up. Forcing his hand, and with a sigh, he reluctantly grabbed them and turned to go to his meeting.

At that moment Mari Crawford, his new secretary, opened his office door and called for him, "Janie is waiting for you." The sound of phones ringing and the clattering of keyboards invaded Harry's office, disrupting his peace.

"Oh, yes, of course…" He collected his papers, only to place them back down again when he faced Mari properly.

Mari had been here only a week and she seemed to be settling in rather well. And today, like every other day, she looked beautiful. In her grey turtle neck sweater and her rather small black skirt she looked like every man's dark fantasy, sexy, sleek and someone who's mission in life was not to marry off her daughters… Harry thought he probably looked rather dull compared to this phoenix with her dark eyes and dark bobbed hair in his corduroy trousers and tweed jacket. Not to mention his rather outdated square framed glasses. Yes, very dull indeed. And very old too, he'd imagine. After all, with five daughters practically grown up, how could a woman such as Mari ever think too look at a man like Harry and find him attractive, warts and all?

Not that he had warts.

And if one thing Harry Bennet had always been a fool for, it was beauty. He had fallen for a beauty before, and that had ended with nearly twenty five years of marriage (a happy marriage) to a woman whose beauty had faded with time and whose nervous disposition had taken over. What Harry liked was peace and quiet, and that was not what he got when he was at home. It was easier to lock himself in his office, study his files and then return home at a quieter hour. Alas, beauty had tricked him into thinking it came with an easy life – and how he had been wrong.

Mari noticed that Harry's mind was wandering and took ample advantage of this. She leaned quite comfortably against the door frame and made herself disposable to be looked at. Harry's eyes wandered quickly and then he coughed and cleared his mind, addressing the woman, "Good, good. How are you Mari? Settling in? Learning who to suck up to and who to avoid?"

Mari smiled, her cat like eyes creasing at the sides, "Absolutely." She almost breathed the word out in a slow whisper. Luckily for Harry, he spotted Janie in enough time to forget about the titillating woman in front of him.

Janie came through the office as Harry motioned to her, "Harry?" Mari backed out of the office slowly, catching Harry's eye before she left and shut the door.

"Janie," he started as he began to clear away the organised mess which was his office and brought forward a chair for Jane to sit on. On a side note, he asked, "Did I ever mention I have a daughter called Jane?"

Janie took the seat and looked rather curiously at her boss, "Yes, you have mentioned it."

Harry nodded and then took a seat, leaning on his desk and crossing his arms, "Tell me, how long have you been working here?

Janie nodded and thought quickly, "Two years, six months, three days and I think about two hours?" Harry looked pleased with that and smiled. Janie asked, rather confused, "I'm sorry Harry, but I fail to see how this is connected to your daughter?"

Harry laughed, "Oh no, it has nothing to do with Jane!" and then Harry laughed, "Well I suppose it is to do about _a _Jane, but you, not my daughter Jane – before, that was simply just a statement." Harry began to suspect that there were far too many Jane's to keep track of in his life!

Janie nodded and waited patiently with her hands folded in her lap for Harry to continue. And he did, "And Janie, how long exactly have you been in love with Ed, our morose yet enigmatic chief designer?"

At this ever quiet and mouse like Jane, blushed profusely. And then she composed herself, she nodded and answered truthfully, "Two years, six months, three days and I suppose, an hour and 30 minutes."

"Thought so." Harry said bluntly, pleased with Jane's forward-thinking and truthfulness.

She breathed slightly and asked, "Do you think everybody knows?"

"Yes," Harry said even more bluntly.

Janie stood up and pushed back her chair quickly, "Do you think Edward knows?!" She managed to whisper it, afraid of letting Alice Fairfax – the office watchdog – finding out and scuttling off to tell Ed.

"Yes," Harry said again, as blunt as a hammer.

With that Jane put her hands over her face and sat back down again, "That…that is really bad news."

Harry sat on the desk with his legs crossed at the bottom, "Well, how about you do something about it?"

"Like what, exactly?" Janie asked through the palms of her hands. Embarrassed wasn't the word right now… mortified perhaps was.

Harry shrugged, "Perhaps ask him out, and then about half an hour into it drop in the fact that you like to marry him, cure him of his tortured moping state, and then have lots of sex and babies?"

Janie was immediately on her feet again, sweaty hands clinging to her brown knee length skirt. "You know that?"

"Everyone knows it," Harry said with a raised eyebrow, "and so does Ed." Harry turned and started to collect the papers he had discarded when Mari walked in. ". And if you do manage to achieve it, how about confiscating that phone of his, or maybe get him to change the bloody annoying ring tone? Think about it, for all of our sakes."

With Harry opened to the door for Janie. "Certainly. Will do…thanks, boss," she said as she walked shakily to the door, only for Ed to walk in before her, almost slamming herself into the filing cabinets. Edward Rochester was hardly fazed by it, with his low scowling brow and his dark inky hair. He was juggling paperwork, in both hands and even a sheet of folded paper in between his gleaming white teeth. His hair was tumbled and almost windswept, like it was every day as he had a habit of when he worked to fiddle and push his hands through it, like he was taming some wild beast that lived there.

He looked up, grasping the folded sheet of paper from his teeth with his right hand, and saw two pairs of eyes looking at him. And of course, one guilty Janie, who was still glowing red from the previous conversation with Harry.

"Jane," he said and nodded to her. He was the only one her called her Jane or on a particularly happy day, sometimes Janet – the French for Jane.

"Hi Ed," Janie said as she scuttled passed him and bolted for her desk. She heard his phone starting to ring before the door shut behind her, and soon, he had followed her out of the meeting with Harry and stood next to Mari, talking to whomever it was he was always talking to on the phone.

Christmas songs played in the background and even as Janie feigned typing, trying to concentrate on her work and not Edward Rochester at all, she could hear what was _meant_ to be Stevie Wonder singing but instead, it was the teen icon Emma Wood – screeching on the radio.

Ed turned to Mari, "Mari, Mari, can you turn that down…Bit early for Christmas songs isn't it?" and with that Ed turned back to his phone call and Janie went back to her computer.

* * *

"And that was the_ Christmas _effort for number one from the once average Emma Wood. And if you're scratching your head and thinking; 'a Christmas song in mid-October?' then you're not the only one out there I'm sure. Oh, dear me, how the might of the music industry has fallen. Resorting to washed out teenage idols to fill the void that decent music left," The poor rambling radio DJ from Radio Watford, with his tuft of remaining hair standing wildly on top of his head, didn't see his co-worker Mike gestating wildly from the next booth, calling for him to stop. Still the DJ rambled "I can safely put my hand up my arse and say that is the worst record I've heard this century—"

Two taps at the window beside him, and the note "SHE'S ON MY SHOW, NEXT" pinned to the glass stopped the poor DJ in his tracks. He coughed slightly, bringing up the taste of stale coffee back into his mouth, and spoke into the microphone slowly, "And coincidentally, I believe Emma Wood will be appearing on my friend's Mike show, in about ten minutes. Welcome back, Emma. And make sure you tune in for the interview of the century… " he sighed, scratched his head, and then flicked on the next track.

Meanwhile, Emma, George Knight and Miss Bates sat rather awkwardly in the reception area, huddled together on a small blue tatty sofa. They had heard the entire catastrophe and Emma was staring, cross armed at George, who just sat staring straight ahead taking every minute of it. Miss Bates tittered precariously on the edge of the sofa arm, looking at the most fascinating thing in the room, her cup of coffee.

Soon the tension was disbursed and Emma was guided into the radio booth, as George and Miss Bates waited anxiously on the blue sofa. Emma couldn't help but feel a tiny bit nervous as she played with the hem of her black skirt. Even though Emma had had her success in the early 90's with being the Girl-Next-Door of the pop world and had several hits doing it, it was in the later years of her career that she had boomed to stardom, for a short while at least. With the coming of the Millennium, Emma Wood changed drastically. She became the grungy rebel, with short matted hair and rips her clothing; she had gone from singing about sweet innocent teenage love at the age of fifteen to singing about drugs, addiction and poverty around the world at the ripe age of twenty one. It was all with the help of Frank Church, another fellow musician whom Emma had become immediately infatuated with, that brought her onto the scene, much to George's fury. George had been her manager throughout the two eras and had known her and her father since Emma was a girl. He was sixteen years older than her, and with that came more experience, experience Emma now wished she had taken heed of.

The transition for fans was great, but they followed still. That was until she strained her voice too much at a local gig, which inflamed her larynx. Not to mention that she had already been high on something that Harriet, her groupie, had let her take that night. So even when her larynx couldn't take it anymore, Emma had no idea and just kept going. George had never approved of Emma's habit. In fact, that night had been the last straw for him and before her appearance on stage; he'd walked out fed up and bedraggled after harsh words had been exchanged between the two. Even now Emma could still remember George's face filled with loathing as she spat vicious words at him as she walked back over to Frank and took his hand.

After the ordeal however, Frank kept in contact rarely and eventually went on tour. It was George who stuck by her. He pushed her into a rehab centre, got her the right medical treatment for her voice so she could not only partially sing but actually talk again. Still, after all of that her voice had never been the same since. And this was what was making her worry now. A radio interview wasn't a good thing for a girl whose voice sounded like a bulldozer rolling over gravel. And that was probably why George was pacing back and forth outside in the lobby.

"So Emma, welcome back. It's been a few years since we last heard of you. And now you're back with a new _Christmas _cover of What Christmas Means to Me. So is Christmas important you, Emma?" Mike the DJ asked, trying to serious with the interview, but Emma knew that underneath he was saying exactly what everyone else was saying. She was a joke. The idea of bringing out a Christmas single way before – some – people actually started celebrating the Christmas season was ridiculous. The name of Emma Wood was already forgotten, so why bother coming back now?

Emma smiled, readied her voice, and decided to tell Mike the absolute truth, "Not particularly Mike." Okay, her voice didn't sound that bad, she thought. Maybe not a bulldozer like she thought but perhaps a lawn mower instead.

Mike flinched slightly at her voice, and then laughed. It was the typical awkward DJ laugh for when things weren't going to plan, "Well then, it begs the question of why now? Why so early for Christmas?"

Emma huffed and coughed slightly, still self-conscious about her voice, "Well," she said trying to mimic the DJ's tone, "Christmas is a time where any forgotten one shot can make a comeback, maybe even hit gold and make number one. I mean, even Mr Blobby had a number one."

Mike genuinely laughed at that, "Are you saying you're now a one shot?"

Outside, George had stopped pacing and was now tapping a hole into the floor as he banged his foot impatiently on the floor. He was unable to understand what on earth Emma was playing at. This was not what they had agreed on, she was meant to sell the record, not bloody destroy her only chance at a comeback! He felt like barging in the booth and dragging her out completely. Miss Bates too was apprehensive. She was shaking visibly and looked as if the slightest noise would make her run for the hills. Over the speaker system, Emma's husky laugh could be heard. That laugh, before and after her accident, never failed to make George's breath catch.

"That's me, Mikey." Emma smiled, her blonde hair swishing side to side as the portable fan danced side to side, blowing air around the room. "Those couple of years were the best years of my teens, and I took it for granted. I thought my voice would never fail me. I was frivolous and foolish, and now I'm left with no voice – after my accident – and no prospect of a viable return." Emma shrugged. Even though she had always been a determined individual, a fact her father was not particularly fond of – determination lead to traveling and traveling lead to danger, a thing her father was not a fan of – she had always known that sometimes her determination had to give way to the bone cutting truth. And now was the time to tell the truth.

"Whoa, thanks for that, Emma," Mike said, looking slightly shocked.

"For what?" Emma asked, rubbing her throat slightly. The motion went unnoticed by Mike.

"For actually giving a real answer to a question. It doesn't often happen here at _Radio Watford_, that's for sure," he said as he nodded over the sign saying "_RADIO WATFORD_" in neon behind Emma's right shoulder. Obviously Mike wasn't happy about his working life, just like Emma.

Emma smiled lowly, "Ask me anything, I'll tell you the truth."

Mike looked like he was a child who had been given a dozen puppies on Christmas Eve. He grinned and his eyebrow lifted slightly as if contemplated asking her the rudest question that could pop into his wrinkled head.

And well, when he did eventually speak, even if it wasn't the rudest question Emma had ever heard, it was rather rude for a Sunday morning. After all, Emma only had herself to blame she had given him the green light to ask her anything, and he had.

"Best shag you ever had?" he asked, grinning. He was purposely putting her on the spot, just to see if she would actually answer it.

Right then, George popped into her mind. He would not be happy with this type of questioning, she was sure. When it came to love and sex George was not the expert in feelings, he was far too proper and sensible to indulge in such a conversation. Ever since she had known him, he had only dated occasionally and never has a serious relationship even though he was a serious kind of man. She briefly wondered why that was, but then with a blush she realised that not only Mike, but the listeners of Radio Watford were waiting for her answer.

"Frank Church." When she said it, Mike's eyebrow raised significantly. Everyone in the UK knew the back story between Frank and herself. It was publicised enough. Mike was probably surprised that she'd actually mentioned it.

"Wow, like the grunge rock artist? Well, that's _another _coincidence because—" Mike asked.

"Only kidding, he was shit." Emma laughed cutting in softly, despite her voice, and smiled broadly. She could just see George's ear steaming with his disapproving brow hanging low over his blue eyes. Well, he wanted publicity…

With that Mike blubbered out a laugh, spittle flying from his mouth. It was a good reaction.

He was still laughing when Emma asked if he wanted to know anything else. After he had calmed himself, he thought for a while and then he tapped a happy rhythm on his desk with his knuckles, happy with his choice of question. Emma however was surprised by it. "Here's one for you. How do you think the new record compares to your old, pop icon/grunge princess stuff?"

Frankly, Emma thought he could have done better for such an open playing field. She laughed slightly trying not to strain her voice any further, and again replied with complete and utter honesty, "Oh come on, Mickey, you know as well as I do that the record is crap. I can barely sing in it. And the old stuff wasn't great either, but wouldn't it just be great if it got to number one, instead of some jumped up teen from one of those endless "talent" shows, but instead a thirty-four year old ex-addict with a voice like a chain-smoker, who is endlessly searching for a comeback at any price?"

Mike the DJ looked slightly stunned, his mouth moving open and shut like a land-lock fish. Emma took her opportunity to carry on, no matter the slight itch it was causing in her throat, and to be as crass as possible. If this didn't pay out, at least she was going to go down fighting, "Anyway, those young pop stars come Christmas will junked up on copious amounts of heroin, having sex with some rat-tailed groupie, who no doubt will be as just junked up as them, making the same mistakes everyone else has already made and will eventually, in about ten years' time, be sitting in this exact seat that I am sitting in now, begging the public for another chance at the career they blew all those years ago. While this Christmas, I'll be at home listening to another sermon from my lovely father about the dangers of the real world, with my manager George, most brooding man alive, and we'll both be miserable all because our fucking gamble didn't pay off." Emma coughed, and then spoke directly into the microphone in front of her, holding it with both hands, "So if you believe in Father Christmas, kiddies, like for you Auntie Emma's sake buy my turd of a record!" Emma coughed again and smiled proudly at Mike's somewhat awed expression. If Emma wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. Somewhere in the building though, she could almost see George banging his straight-laced head hopelessly against a wall.

Mike laughed freely, holding his hand to his sides as if trying to keep himself together. "And with that," Mike said after he had composed himself again, "Here it is one more time, the dark horse for this year's early Christmas number one, What Christmas Means to Me. Thank you, Emma and you're rather colourful speech. After this, the news. Is the new Prime Minister already in trouble?"

After the interview, Mike was up out of his cushy seat and shaking Emma's hand, laughing still at her profound speech. He told her that the phones next door never stopped ringing and the ratings for his show had never reached such peeks, after all it was Radio Watford. It seemed that Emma's unorthodox interview was a hit with the station and the listeners.

Walking out of the radio booth was another thing all together. George was standing there waiting for her, his hair slightly puffed up from where he had no doubt been grabbing it in frustration. Miss Bates was still perched on the blue sofa, looking down at her shoes which seemed to be the most interesting thing in the room to her right now. George was still staring disapprovingly at her when the radio manager came over to congratulate them, which Emma thought was rather rude. When the man left, looking slightly despondent with how the news was taken, she told him so.

"Rude? You call me _rude_?!" he whispered furiously at her. When George uses his whisper tone, it means crap for everyone in the room, especially the one he's aiming it at. "Did you or did you not hear what you were saying in there? Do you have any idea what you sounded like?" He grabbed his silvering hair and rushed a hand through it in anger.

"Oh calm down, Georgie. You wanted ratings, you got them." Emma said as she started to walk past him with Miss Bates following close behind, her eyes still glued to the floor.

George soon caught up with them and held her elbow softly, "Emma, I wanted publicity, but I didn't want you to sell yourself like some kind of…" He trailed. Now George was the one looking at the floor, instead of Miss Bates. Getting the hint, Miss Bates tittered away and went over to the water fountain not far away for her to miss them leaving but far enough not to hear their conversation.

Emma looked at George, who she seemed to have aged far too much over the years. Her heart gave a little skip, and she stoutly ignored it. She huffed suddenly even though she didn't feel particularly fed up and asked "Like what George?"

George looked imploringly into her eyes. He had always been a sensible and genuine man. Every emotion was visible in his eyes, he never hid them, he was never remote, only his sensible nature fooled people into believe that he was indifferent. "Emma, I just –"

"Well this is cosy isn't it?" They both turned, mid-sentence, to see a lean man with ruffled auburn hair standing there, staring at them with a happy glint in his eye. _Frank Church_.

This was the last place Emma had ever expected to see Frank. George thought the same. Emma glanced from Frank's boyish charm over to George. It was not a surprise that George was frowning profusely over at Frank, nor was it any surprise that Frank was receiving the stare with a happy interest. There was no love lost between the two. If there was one thing about Frank, he received everyone (even those who hated him) with a cordial interest. In all, Frank always seemed to be the perfect gentlemen. But Emma knew otherwise and knew that although Frank seemed to be perfect in every way, handsome, witty, a rock star with a cheeky smile and a happy glint in his eye, he was not all he seemed to be. Like she had always been told, if anything seems too good to be true…it was probably was. And that was Frank. He was far too good to be true. He was never as quite wonderful as everyone thought.

Emma knew that.

George knew that.

George's hand that was still holding her elbow tightened suddenly. "Emma, we're leaving." The tone was not one to refuse, but Emma was still curious as to why Frank was here – in all places, Radio Watford. Emma shrugged slightly and George released his hold of her elbow. Unconsciously holding her throat, she spoke, "What are you doing here, Frank?"

Frank smiled brightly and looked Emma up and down. He'd obviously noticed the change in Emma's voice, but as always Frank was too polite to say anything about it. It was then that Emma noticed Frank's manager Gianna Fairfax, who looked exactly the same as she did about ten years ago, was standing not far behind him, seeming hiding from the entire physical confrontation. Gianna was willowy with dark brown hair and a small stature. George immediately perked up when he saw Gianna. That irked Emma slightly, but she didn't let him notice.

Frank chuckled, "I'm here for an interview, Emma. I was booked immediately after you were. Fate is a funny thing, isn't it?" Emma eyed him suspiciously, but it was Gianna who caught her eye. She looked rather miserable. It seemed that Frank had barely noticed how awkward this situation was, and he was quite happy to prolong it.

Emma scoffed at his flirtatious words, "I'd call it mere coincidence." George held her elbow again trying to edge her towards the door and Emma ignored it again, moving her arm to back to her throat acting as if it was sore. George soon quit trying to make her leave and decided to be blunt and get this loathsome situation over with as soon as humanly possible. Facing Frank with obvious displeasure, he asked, "Why are you here for an interview, anyway, Frank? I don't recall you having a new single out. Not for several years, I believe."

Frank smiled even at George's bitter words, "I believe you were right until about a month ago, dear George," he said as Gianna handed him a CD, he likewise handed it to George which he took begrudgingly.

"A new album, I see." George said, turning the CD back a forth in his hand, eyeing it as if it could poison him. The album artwork and title was typically Frank – a picture of Frank lying in a bed of cushions with Christmas presents laid around him. The title was as obnoxious as ever, "Simply Frank at Christmastime." George wished he could gag in public, but it was highly unsophisticated of him to do so, so he refrained. He simply handed it to Emma, whose eyes bulged when she was the Christmas themed cover.

"You're going for the Christmas number one?" Emma demanded to know, not even caring about the strain on her voice.

Frank chuckled, "Oh yes, Emma dear." Gianna flinched at the friendliness of his tone. "It seems that we will be seeing a lot more of each other over the coming weeks."

* * *

**A/N: Massive thanks to Queen****Silence**** and all the reviews out there for the previous chapter. Thanks, guys!**

**When I was writing Emma's story, I honestly was getting frustrated with it - She just wouldn't fit nicely into Billy Mack's storyline. So I aged her (a little bit of revenge on my part because of her stubborn character, I must admit :p ) and I gave her a old addiction - how nice of me! And I threw in an ex boyfriend, as well just for fun and to mix up the story a tad. Since Emma Woodhouse is not anything like the aging heroin-addict Billy Mack, I had to improvise. However, I think I hopefully kinda kept her 'essence' in a sense! As Jane Austen said herself, Emma is 'a heroine whom no-one but myself (Austen) will much like' :p **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and keep reviewing! :D **


	5. Laying the Foundation

"**I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."  
**

**Jane Austen****, **_**Pride and Prejudice**_

* * *

"Right, what's next?" William Darcy asked the rest of his cabinet.

They were all assembled in one of the drawing rooms of Downing Street discussing the plans for the future of the United Kingdom and Darcy had frankly had enough. They had been locked up in this room for what seemed like eons, hardly agreeing on anything and the worst was yet to come. The proprieties of jackets and ties had been long forgotten and now practically everyone had their sleeves around their elbows, their collars unbuttoned and their discarded garments hanging on the backs of their chairs. He was pretty sure that Caroline was rather uncomfortable still sitting in her starched jacket that made her back go rigid as if something rather unpleasant was situated up her backside.

Right now, Darcy was rather fed up with his cabinet's indecision, and even though he could easily overrule them, he would rather they agreed on something. They had just finished hearing the Education minister and his ideas for rebooting the education system. Darcy could see the merits in his plan, however the education system needed retuned definitely but it did not need a complete make-over which was what the minister was intending. Most of the party, bar a few fickle minded people, had agreed with their Prime Minister and had swiftly moved along. To be honest, all Darcy wanted right now was a good cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit to sooth the pounding in his head….neither it seemed where going to happen any time soon.

"The President's visit," one member of his cabinet said, Caroline no doubt. There was a mutual grumble throughout the room.

To his left Edward Gardiner, his deputy, grumbled the deepest. He was not a fan of the American President or his treatment towards the UK. Darcy, however, still had yet to make up his mind. Gardiner had been pushing and pushing his stance on certain matters all day, even though Darcy knew that if Gardiner had his way they would have be out of this ornate room in a flash and out at the nearest trout-stocked lake. It seemed his deputy was just as fed up with how this meeting was proceeding as Will was. The matter at hand was the Presidential visit, and even though Darcy had heard stories about the rather wayward president and disagreed politically him, he could not outright deny the President anything that he demanded. He knew caution was his only bet on keeping this term in office a satisfactory one, for the public and for the party.

Darcy gestured for his cabinet to calm, "Yes, yes. I fear this is going to be a difficult one to play. Gardiner?" He looked over to the man on his left; it was his voice that was the voice of the party in this matter.

"There's a heavy feeling in the party that we mustn't allow ourselves to be bullied, like the last government."

There was a general "Here, here" around the room. At least his party was agreeing to something.

"This is our first really important test, let's make a stand," Jeremy exclaimed, making Darcy's head pound slightly. There was mutual agreement within the party. Unfortunately it didn't match Will's stance.

"Right, right. I understand…however I have decided…not to." There were thumps of disapproval on the table and a general disharmony in the room, "This is not the time to act, to make a stance. We will, of course, try to be clever. Let's let not forget that America is the most powerful country in the world. I am not going to act like a petulant child towards them. They should be our allies, not our enemies. Of course, that does not mean that we are their lapdog."

The miffed faces around the room were easily detectable, and to try and break the ice, Darcy twisted in his chair and said, "Right, now who do you have to _shag_ around here to get a cup of tea and a _bloody_ chocolate biscuit?"

And just then, Darcy got his wish. Elizabeth quietly pulled in the tea trolley from the side door. The action itself shouldn't have gained attention but when Elizabeth looked up the entire room was looking at her, staring at her with either shock or amusement in their eyes.

She noticed that it was the Prime Minister that looked the most shocked out of the entire party. She could just about hear the short word "Right" fall from lips as she turned away and began to pour teas and coffees.

Throughout the rest of the meeting, Darcy could barely keep his attention straight. Elizabeth had not only shocked him by her entrance but had captivated him too. He could tell that the girl was nervous being the centre of attention in front of so many people, but she held her head high – if slightly confused by the looks some of the ministers were giving her – and carried on pour and giving out the tea and biscuits. Today, she was the lady in black. She was wearing a black jumper with white lace trimming and black skirt, both flatter her figure beautifully. Likewise, her hair was up in a rather sophisticated pony tail, her long brown hair curled at the bottom of her neck as she leaned over showing of her starkly pale skin and the curve of her neck. Even watching her pour tea was maddening Darcy. He was somewhat desperate to feel it, to touch the silky hair that curled so innocently onto her collarbone that he barely noticed when Gardiner was speaking again to the entire party.

Elizabeth could almost feel the entire party staring at her separately as she handed them each a cup and saucer with one milk chocolate biscuit. It was rather unnerving and surprisingly for Elizabeth, she didn't dare meet their eyes as they thanked her. Suddenly her independent nature, under such vast scrutiny, was being smothered by embarrassment. Caroline Bingley was make it visibly known that she was glaring at Elizabeth – so Elizabeth gave her the crumbled biscuit. Stare at me again, Elizabeth thought, and you'll get one from the bashed packet. Ugh, even her mind, Elizabeth knew that sounded petty and lame, but the look on Caroline's face as she placed a half crumbled biscuit in front of her was gold. Elizabeth shrugged off the fact that it could have actually been the fact that Elizabeth dared suggest that Caroline ate biscuits – chocolate ones at that – which had made Caroline's face scrunch up in horror.

When Elizabeth had made her way around the table, she finally came to William Darcy. She smiled slightly, her eyes cast downward as she handed him the cup of tea and saucer which she had placed two chocolate biscuits at the side of.

Darcy had noticed with a quick smile that Elizabeth had given him two biscuits instead of the customary one that he was used to from Anne Reynolds. He was so intrigued by this fact that he was still contemplating it as Elizabeth pulled the trolley away and even his cabinet stood signalling the end of the meeting. He had hardly realised they had finished.

Later on in the evening, Darcy was working silently in his mahogany panelled office, at his matching mahogany desk, sitting in his brown leather upholstered chair. The room was lit by only his solitary green glassed desk lamp that was beaming down on his paperwork, making his eyes squint and sting. Rubbing his burning eyes, he looked down at his watch and realised that it was far later into the evening that he had thought. Pushing the papers aside, he leaned further into his chair and closed his eyes briefly and breathed heavily.

This would not do. He was not concentrating properly at all. Every time he looked at his papers all he saw were two fine, dark eyes staring back at him. That and two small rounded chocolate biscuits. Why was this girl invading his senses? Who was she to do that to him, the prime minister? She was a simple tea-girl, unimportant. Then why was his head plaguing him with images of her face, her eyes and how the movement of her hair curled around the nape of her neck in stark contrast to her pastel pale skin? Brushing his hands over his roughed up face, Darcy shook himself. The portraits of Prime Ministers past that were placed around the room stared at him with unfeeling eyes, damning him almost, for not doing his job at this crucial time. After all, he had the President due in just a few days, right now was not the time for an infatuation with one of the members of his staff. Resigning himself to work, Darcy picked up the papers that he had been struggling with before and stared at them indifferently…

By god, he was tired.

With a stride of his long legs he stood and paced around the ornate room, trying to shake himself awake again. And to force himself to not think about _her_. Suddenly, mid step, there were three full knocks on his office door. Rushing back to his seat, Darcy settled himself back into his working position and with a cough he said, "Come in."

The sound of heels on the floor made Darcy look up from the papers that he had in his hand. Elizabeth was walking into his office, tray balancing in her right hand. Darcy unintentionally noticed that she walked with a slight rhythm to her hips, it was rather a provocative movement. He immediately rebuffed himself for thinking such an inappropriate thing and cleared his throat again.

Elizabeth was at his desk already placing papers to one side, "These just came in from the treasury," she said, "And these, these are for you." She placed a plate with four chocolate biscuits down on his desk and smiled.

Darcy looked at the biscuits, no stared at them. He wasn't sure what kind of expression he had shown – or maybe no expression at all – but Elizabeth went to pick them back up again, "I can take them back, sir, if you–" she started as tried to place them back on her tray. Without thinking, Darcy took Elizabeth's wrist rather tenderly and placed the plate back on the table, "No," he said quietly, "No, they will do."

Elizabeth's mouth formed into a small 'o' and she stared rather wide eyed at the man before her. He too stared back into those fine eyes, and then gently he broke away and released her wrist. Their fingers brushed against each other as Darcy pulled away. That one touch was maddening, but it wasn't enough. Darcy sat back into his chair and looked away from the girl standing in front of his desk and back at the papers.

Blushing and slightly shaken, Elizabeth moved towards the door, ready to leave when she made the decision t turned around and spoke out in a rush, "I was hoping that you'd win." As soon as it left her mouth, she regretted it. It wasn't the way you were supposed to talk to the Prime Minister, after all. William Darcy looked up at her, his expression as indistinguishable as ever. Well she had started now, she'd better finish, "You were the only one with good intentions for the country. You genuinely wanted to help." Elizabeth smiled coyly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "And that is very rare in a politician."

From where Elizabeth was standing it looked as if Darcy's lips turned up into a slight smile. "Thank you, Elizabeth," he said softly, pronouncing her name as though it was a caress.

Elizabeth smiled and began to back away towards the door, "Of course," she said, "It doesn't mean I wouldn't have been nice to the other bloke." She rolled her eyes at the mention of the 'other bloke' as she held the office door open with her lean fingers. "I would have just given him the boring biscuits." And with that, she smiled again and shut the door behind her. Darcy laughed inwardly and watched her go with utter fascination until the last possible moment, as her delicate fingers left the door frame and the door clicked shut.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I've had this chapter in the pipeline for a while, and I thought it was time for a bit of Darcy/Elizabeth one to one action without the other characters! Oh yeah! :D **

** It's a little treat for myself and hopefully you guys, and hey, how doesn't like a bit of Darcy/Elizabeth romp action? So this is just a Pride and Prejudice dedicated chapter, as I'm currently in the middle of a move and I don't know when I'll be able to post the next chapter. Hopefully not too long, the characters are already screaming at me for their turn in the limelight! Especially those who haven't been introduced at all *cough, cough* Wickham *cough, cough* yet! So it's just here to keep you guys entertained and hopefully gripped :D **

**Thanks again for the reviews and everything. Hope you guys enjoy it! **


	6. Torment of Admiration

"**No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment."**

**Jane Austen**

* * *

Henry bounded down the stairs outside of his dingy flat and managed to hop into the passenger side of Colin's car _after_ he struggled to open the dented car door. Like always his hair was a messy bundle of brown floppy strands, tied back loosely with a little rubber band that blended completely into his hair. His leather jacket was crinkled and aged but it suited him well. Everything suited Henry well, thought Colin sourly. Unlike Colin, Henry was what every girl would go for – that is if he had a penny to his name. Henry was handsome, charming and had a rugged exterior, however, that only suited woman for a while. They would soon get bored of the penniless charmer. It seemed that dating Henry, for a woman, was the first step to finding their future husband. The majority of Henry's exes had, after going out with Henry, married the next decent bloke they happened to bump into!

Admittedly Colin was slightly envious of Henry. That much was obvious between the two friends. However Colin knew that, unlike Henry, the he embodied a woman's ideal of the perfect husband. Well, Colin thought, he was not an unattractive man after all and he had enough to keep him and his bride on their feet financially when his inheritance came in. He just needed his uncle to pop his clogs first, and really that was all that was stopping his perfect life from rolling into action. Well, that and the snootiness of British woman. He had no hope when it came to them. Even his cousin, Elizabeth, had rejected his advances – and if even his own (albeit distant) family didn't want him, how could he ever find a decent British woman who would?!

When Henry entered the car and shut the door the smell of old, musky leather filled the air. Colin greeted him with his usual warmth while Henry demanded Colin drive to the nearest pub – a drink was necessary when Colin was in the driver's seat.

"Exciting news!" Colin said as soon as Henry bothered to look in his direction. He was driving rather fast, as always and Henry was trying not to show his fear.

Outside, Henry noticed that most of the surroundings where starting to blur together. He gripped tighter to the door frame and made sure his seat belt was secured. "What?" he asked, trying to hide the panic in his voice as Colin ran a red light. The sound of horns beeped in the distance behind them. Henry visibly cringed.

"I've bought a ticket to the States. I'm off in three weeks." Colin grinned like a cat that got all the cream. He pulled out a ticket from his tattered jean pocket and waved it smugly in Henry's face.

Henry visibly blanched at the ticket, refusing to acknowledge the fact that his ridiculous friend was only going to embarrass himself on another continent and pushed it away from Colin, "Eyes on the bloody road, Colin! Jesus, you're going to get us killed!"

Colin ignored him and proceeded to wave the ticket in front of Henry's vision as he weaved in and out of the lanes. Henry shoved Colin's hand away and placed his arm at ten to two on the steering wheel – the proper driving position. With a little sign, Henry wiped his sweaty forehead and relaxed back into his seat. "No, Colin, you can't be going to America."

"Yes!" Colin said slapping the steering wheel with a happy clap of his hands, "To a marvellous place called _Wisconsin_." He had a goofy, pleased grin on his face as he said 'Wisconsin.' Henry knew that Colin had no idea where Wisconsin actually was in American or what he was actually saying.

"No!" Henry shouted, his hands flinging out in frustration. He wasn't even bothered about Colin's driving anymore. Colin had to be the most ridiculous and insensible man Henry had ever met. It was rather a miracle that Henry hadn't flung him out the window already and taken to driving himself to a pub.

"Oh yes, my dear friend. Wisconsin girls prepare to meet you future husband, Sir Colin!" He said it as it were a jingle and tooted the horn in three equal beeps with the palm of his left hand.

Henry shook his head and turned slightly in his seat to face his friend, "No, Col! Granted there are a few babes in America, but they're already going out with rich,_ attractive_ guys."

Colin laughed slight and waggled a long bony finger at Henry, "Ah, Henry, I sense the rearing of the green eyed monster!"

"What?" Henry asked his dark brows raised high on his olive brow. "I have no idea what you're on about, Colin." He pushed back his floppy mane of black hair and shook his head for what seemed like the umpteenth time today.

"You're jealous, Henry! And it's completely understandable," Colin said smugly as Henry looked at him as if he'd gone completely mad, "After all a man like you should know perfectly well that in any bar anywhere in America contains ten or more beautiful ladies who would be vying for my attention." Colin smiled and then shrugged, "And well, who are more likely to have sex with me than the whole of the United Kingdom."

In disbelief, Henry stared with wide eyes at his mate and then he let out a rough cough of laughter, "That is totally bollocks! You've actually gone mad. No one in their right mind, on any continent would want to have sex with you, Colin. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better."

It was now Colin's turn to shake his slightly greasy head, "No, I'm wise. Stateside I am a sex god. I am Prince William without the _weird_ family."

"No, Colin, no!" Henry shouted.

"Yes!" said Colin.

"Nyet!"

"Da!"

"Nein!"

"Ja, darling!" Colin exclaimed happily.

Henry just groaned in reply, already thinking about how Colin was going to ruin American for any other Englishman, and wished that Colin would just bloody hurry up and find a damn pub!

* * *

"Right, the work Halloween party," Harry Bennet groaned out as he paced back and forth in his office, rubbing his forehead with his forefinger and thumb. Mari was standing in the middle of the room wearing a black fitted turtle neck sweater, watching him pace, holding a clipboard and a pencil. The pencil was framed, rather provocatively Harry thought, by her bright red, ruby lips. Occasionally she twirled her tongue around the rubber end of the pencil. It was damn distracting. Harry huffed slightly and breathed deeply and got back to the matter at hand, "This is not my favourite night of the year," Harry scoffed thinking of the last Halloween party. Harry's hatred of work functions knew no bounds, especially those functions which required him to dress up and act the fool. This year would be no different, he would bet. "And even though I loathe the very thought to Halloween parties, it is work policy that we have one. Why you might ask, Mari, I haven't the foggiest. Apparently the social club hasn't realised yet that it's puerile for grown adults to dress in costumes and cavort around like giddy sugar-hyped children, but never the less, it's what we do _every_ year."

Mari smiled and placed the pencil away from her lips and onto the plain piece of paper, ready to right, "Tell me." The rubber of the pencil had a red circle of smudged lipstick left from her lips, Harry noted with interest.

Harry turned and began pacing again. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, pulling at the starched neck with his index finger. Surely it was getting far too hot in this office? He eyed Mari again with a cocked eyebrow, looking at how the turtle neck and pencil skirt combo clung to every inch of her young body accentuating her curvy hips and lean, toned legs without actually showing any of it. He agreed with himself. Yes, definitely far too hot.

He turned away, pretending to look of the office windows seemingly keeping an eye on his employees and began to speak, "Nothing too difficult. It's basic, really. Find and venue, over-order on the drinks, bulk buy the guacamole and advise the girls to avoid Tom Bertram if they want their breasts unfondled."

Mari laughed a little at this. Even though she was new to the office, Mari was quite aware of how Tom could be a little over zealous with the boundaries of someone's personal space. She looked up to find Harry, looking back at her. Mari thought that for a man of his age, with his income, Harry Bennet was rather an _attractive_ prospect, even with the grey hair. "Wives and families and stuff?" she said, gaining a nod from him in her direction.

"Yes," He said and then immediately put his hand out to stop her writing, "I mean not children, we don't need that of all things, but wives, girlfriends etc…" Harry then made a face which made his nose wrinkle up as if he had smelled something foul. "Oh god, you haven't got some horrible six-foot, tight T-shirt-wearing boyfriend you'll be bringing along to it, have you?"

Mari smiled, the pencil touched her lips gently drawing attention there, and then she spoke, "No, I'll just be hanging around the punch table, hoping to be kissed by a masked stranger."

Harry lost his footing for a second as Mari stared bluntly into his eyes. "Really?" he said sounding far too eager. He coughed and with a curl of his eyebrow said, "Right…"

Then Mari turned, finished with the party details, and walked to the door. However, before she put a wall between Harry and herself, she gave him a quick wink and shut the door on Harry's stunned face.

* * *

Brandon closed the door behind him and Janice as they entered his white-walled modern quayside home. They flung their coats and Janice's multi-coloured hat and scarf on the wooden bench nearby and proceeded into the kitchen with their shopping bags. Janice had been helping out with the food shopping and anything else Brandon and Martha needed. Today they had been to the Sunday market picking up a few cheap bargains, or at least trying to, but Brandon had made a B-line for the nearest supermarket disregarding the lovely, colourful vegetables to grab the most sugary and artery clogging box of cereal. The box in question was now open and sitting on the breakfast bar, rattling as both Janice and Brandon took turns to grab a handful of sugary 'o's to eat.

Brandon shook his head and leant heavily against the bar with both arms, "She's spending most of the time in her room," he said with an exhausted sigh, "I mean she'll be up there now."

Janice always knew that Brandon was not coping as well as he should be after his wife's death. And with the added burden of looking after Martha alone, he was _certainly_ not well. It seemed that ever since Eliza had died, and even a short time before, Martha had taken to staying in her room, barely eating, hardly talking and Brandon suspected, not even sleeping.

Janice chewed slightly on a sugary 'o' and shrugged, "Brandon, there's nothing unusual about that. My horrid youngest daughter…"

"Lydia?" Brandon guessed with a small smile. Every time Janice was in his kitchen, eating some sort of sugary confection, she managed to bring up the subject of Lydia. She had been the golden child in Janice's eyes (and Brandon suspected that secretly she still was, even with Lizzie working in Downing Street) and could do no wrong. However, when Lydia hit puberty and developed a penchant for extremely loud, deafening music and took to wearing black, holey clothing Janice had not been best please. It had been a vast contrast to the happy-go-lucky girl who loved to sing, dance and coo over boy-bands in her spare time. And now since Lydia had been given one of the leads in the School production of Midsummer Night's Dream, she had again become too common subject of conversation.

Janice nodded, shoving another handful of 'o's into her mouth, and said, "Lydia." She chewed quickly while waving her hand in a circular motion to signal that she wasn't finished talking. "Stays in her room all the time. Thank goodness!" she said popping another cereal piece into her mouth.

Brandon with his hands placed into his pockets, sighed and glanced up at the landing above him, towards Martha's door and said, "But Janice, this is _all _the time." Janice gulped down her cereal and too stared up at Martha's closed door. Brandon continued, his face growing more concerned with every passing word, "I'm afraid something is really wrong, you know? I mean, clearly it's about her mum, but Christ, I have no idea what she's doing up there, she might be injecting heroin into his eyeballs for I know."

"At the age of eleven?" Janice said taking a sip of the cup of tea that had been sitting on the counter in front of her. It was still warm even though she hadn't touched it since Brandon had made it about twenty minutes ago.

"Well," Brandon said, "Maybe not her eyeballs then, just her veins." He sighed again, almost racking his chest slightly as if he was holding in some untold emotion that he would and could not let out. "Her mum always used to talk to her, you know, and….I just don't know," he said bracing his shaking hands against the kitchen counter, "this whole stepfather thing seems to matter more now than ever before, and I don't know how to make Martha see that I can _help_." Brandon could feel himself tearing up, and stopped himself from balling like a child abruptly with a loud intake of breath. He tapped his knuckles against the granite top and turned around to pour himself another tea. Not that he had finished his previous one.

"Look," Janice said reassuringly, placing her tea down and putting a comforting hand on Brandon's arm, "It was always going to be totally shit time." Janice spoke frankly, dropping all her airs and graces that she usually wore to mask her feelings and looked Brandon straight into the eyes. "If I know anything about raising five daughters, it's this; if Martha wants to talk to you, she will. Just be patient. And maybe check the room for needles."

However, it seemed that Janice's words of advice had slipped by Brandon's hearing. He was staring into a place and time that Janice couldn't see or even begin to understand. "And when she does come out," he started as if he was already in mid-sentence, "it's obvious that she's been crying." And with that Brandon just couldn't control his emotions, the gap opened and tears began to flow steadily down his cheeks. It took Janice and second or so to realise that her friend was not going to finish his speech, and was indeed crying slowly into the tea pot. Dropping the pack of biscuits she was about to open, Janice laid a calming hand on his shoulder. It was the touch a woman with such an open heart like Janice could bestow, which made Brandon release his inner turmoil.

"It was such a ridiculous _waste_," he whispered, his voice partially clogged by tears. He held onto and squeezed Janice's arm like it was his only form of life support in this, his sea of salty tears. "And now it's going to ruin Martha's life as well…I just don't know." With that he looked imploringly into Janice's eyes as if he could find all his solutions there. But no, he couldn't. There had only been one pair of eyes that he had seen that uplifted him since his beloved wife had died and left both him and Martha alone. And he could never have them, he could never look into them and find all the answers to his problems there, he could never see those eyes look on Martha happily with a mother's love. And he would never let himself have that, even if he had the opportunity to take it.

Janice almost wanted to cry with him, seeing the pain in his eyes, but she stopped herself just in time and smiled instead, "Come on, Brandon, Eliza's death will not ruin your life or Martha's. I know that, and so did Eliza. We were all lucky to have her in our lives even if for a brief time. Just think on that?" she said watching as Brandon began to calm down. She continued, sensing the need for humour in this sad time, "And anyway, Brandon, no one likes sissies. I mean no one's ever going to shag you if you cry all the time."

With that, Brandon laughed. He had laughed, even if it had been a muted by tears and a blocked nose. And that's all that Brandon needed right now, people to remind him of the humour in life, not the morbidity.

He straightened slightly and Janice moved her hand from his shoulder, "Yes, Janice, you're right. Absolutely. Helpful." And with that, they both dug their hands deep into the rustling cereal box, grabbing as much as their hands could hold and soon devoured the full box between them.

* * *

They had been sitting on a bench overlooking the Thames for a while now. It was chilly when they had sat down, silently, and started to eat their to-go lunch, but now the cold was starting to cling to Brandon's hands making them red and numb. Martha it seemed wasn't feeling the cold at all, probably due to the fact that Brandon being the predictable over-protective father, had wrapped her up so tightly in winter clothing that she could of out done the Baby Jesus in swaddling. However, her cheeks were pink from the cold Brandon noticed with concern and wondered whether he should have brought her ear warmers with them. He also noticed that she was still clinging onto the frozen smoothie that he had bought for her earlier, even though it was untouched and probably warm from body heat.

Brandon sighed and pushed his eye back from his face. How on earth did Eliza do this? How did she have such an easy way of talking to Martha? This was the line of questioning that had been plaguing his mind ever since he dragged Martha out for some 'fresh air.' He looked at the brown haired girl next to him wearing a bright purple puffy coat and wondered how he could be so terrified to talk. He had never been any good at this, feelings and talking. But Martha needed to know that she wasn't alone in this grieving. And that he was there for her, no matter what. Biological father or not, she was his _daughter_.

After about half an hour's silence, Brandon spoke, "So what's the problem, Martha?" At that, the girl looked up and big brown eyes stared unhappily into his. Brandon leaned closer and moved to face those questioning eyes, "It is just Mum or is it something else, huh?"

Martha just stared at him.

"Maybe school?" he asked, imploringly.

She shook her head. Not school.

Brandon nodded and then reassessed his next line of questioning, "Are you being bullied? Or is it something worse?" he started ranting worrying so vigorously asking question upon question that the absurdity of it made Martha smile. She smiled.

"Can you give me any clues at all?" Brandon asked finally asking the direct question.

Martha looked up at him like only a child could, without judgment but assessing him silently. She tilted her head to the side, her brown eyes squinted slightly and slanted her mouth in a half smiled, and then asked, "You really want to know?"

With dread slightly building in his stomach, Brandon nodded and said as reassuringly as possible, "I really want to know."

Martha adjusted her hold on the smoothie, her mitted hands not being able to keep it position, and looked side long again at Brandon, "Even though you won't be able to do anything to help?"

Brandon exhaled and fidgeted in his seat, tucking his long grey winter coat around him, "Even if that's the case, yeah."

Martha too sighed, "Okay," she said sounding far older than her ten years. Her brown curls blew into her eyes and with a mittened hand she brushed the strand of hair aside, before Brandon could help, and said, looking down at her smoothie, " Well... truth is, actually... I'm in _love_."

Brandon frowned, thinking that he had misheard, "Sorry?"

"I know I should be thinking about Mum all the time and I am but the truth is I'm in _love_." Martha said quickly and unapologetically for someone so young, "I was before she died and there's nothing I can do about it." If there was one thing about Martha, ever since she was a toddler, if Martha set her mind to something then she was going to do everything she could to try and achieve it.

Brandon smirked, hiding his smile with a wipe of his hand across his mouth. Well, that was not what he was expecting at all. Love had never occurred to him. Far from it actually. "Martha," he said trying to not to laugh with relief but failing miserably. He coughed but grin remained, "Aren't you a bit young to be in love?"

"No." Martha looked at him with very serious eyes and a determined look on her face.

That made Brandon stop in his laughing tracks. He cleared his throat and looked out towards the Thames, "Ah, well. Right." And then he smiled again, this time with relief. "Well I have to say, I'm a little relieved."

"Why?" Martha said with confusion.

Brandon chuckled again as the wind nipped at his smiling cheeks, "Because l... thought it'd be something much worse." He brushed his mop of hair back from his forehead and sunk back into the hard, wooden bench.

Martha eyed him as if he'd gone mad, "What, worse than the total agony of being in love?"

And then Brandon remembered how the soft stare of two pale oval eyes, focusing solely with their rapt attention, made him feel, caused his entire being to wish for something more than just the abject grief that had encompassed his life for more than an year now and how that made him think... And then he remembered the pain it caused him to know that he could always see that look of pure love and adoration in her eyes but that it would and never _could_ be directed at him. "No, you're right." he said forlornly, "Total agony."

* * *

**A/N: Pretty sort one but we're actually getting into the beef of the story now, I think, within the next chapter or so! Finally! I realised that about 6 chapters in, and I was still only 27 minutes into the film really, which can be a blow I can tell you that! :p But, I'm rather enjoying this so far and I haven't given up yet, which is always good! Reviewers keep me motivated :D **

**Anyway, thank you loads for your reviews on the last all Darcy/Elizabeth chapter. I'm sooo grateful for them, and that you're still following and reading this! It's just mind boggling :p Without further ado, enjoy! **


	7. Rapid Imaginations

"**A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment."**

** Jane Austen**

* * *

The office was empty as Janie sat at her desk, typing away with her iPod in. Dido was blasting into her eardrums as she filled in form upon form of mundane purchase orders to be sent off to China, Russia and America. Janie's eyes had already begun to sting after the first three order forms. She rubbed her eyes tenderly and pushed her chunky black glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. Her little desk lamp wasn't of much use when it came to working late. It was dim and didn't help her sore eyes one bit. Due to that fact, she had barely noticed the glint of another lamp in the offices opposite her little cubicle, where Ed was currently hunched over his drawings probably making everything perfect before having Janie send them off to suppliers. Well, she had barely noticed the light but she had _definitely_ noticed the exquisite form that was Ed Rochester.

He had been working late nights ever since Janie had begun working at Thornfield Enterprises. Every night he would be here, doing overtime, sitting at his desk in complete concentration with his pencil in hand and his computer screen blinking in the dimly lit office. Seeing Ed was mostly the reason that Janie worked overtime too, even if the incentive of double pay was in the deal. And partly because, as an orphaned only child with only an aunt who would bother to visit her occasionally but who in the end could barely tolerate her, Janie had nothing better to do than work. It was either work or go back home and sit with her cat, Adele, watching TV. And that wasn't the best option.

Yes, Janie would rather be at work, earning some more money to pay off her student debts and pay rent for her overly expensive yet rather dingy flat. Plus, it had the added bonus of seeing Edward without having the hustle and bustle of the office around them. It was silly of her, and she knew it, to be in love with a man who said about two words to her each day – 'hello' and 'goodnight' – and who had several phone calls a day, no doubt from some drop dead gorgeous model-like girlfriend. But Janie, on this account, could not be rational. Edward Rochester had fascinated her from day one. He was your typical average man, tall, lean and dark haired with no particular striking features. Yet, there was something, and Janie wasn't quite sure what, that drew her attention to him. There was almost an intense _sadness_ about him that she could not quite help but be called to. She supposed that it was all down to her 'love of the downtrodden', as he aunt had called it. Janie had always been drawn to weak and defenceless creatures, to help them, to nurture them. Not that anything about Ed was weak or defenceless, but there was a need in her to help him. It was probably the reason also that she volunteered a lot with countless charities and groups. Some for mental health, others for children. Janie always wanted to do the right thing, and helping others was always the right thing in her book.

Quickly, realising the time, Janie grabbed her small and rather empty make-up bag and began to hurriedly apply some eye shadow to her large lids and lipstick to her small, pale lips. Right on cue, Ed's office light went out and she heard his footsteps moving closer to her desk. Having the cubicle right next to the exit meant that Ed would have to walk past to leave and usually he would say goodnight to her with a small smile on his lips.

Janie looked up as the footsteps drew closer and was surprised to see Ed standing close to her desk, not moving towards the exit. He was actually standing at her desk, behind her computer screen, staring unashamedly at her.

"Goodnight, Janie," he said looking down at her holding a rolled up drawing in his hand and his bag hung over his right shoulder.

Janie smiled rather shakily – she was still taken aback by his closeness – and replied like she would any other night, "Goodnight, Ed."

However, this was different than any other night because this time, Ed didn't walk away like he would do every night. No, instead, he stayed. His brow furrowed as if he was contemplating something. Janie smiled nervously and looked at the drawing rolled up in his hand.

"Is that for me?" she asked, nodding towards the paper. That seemed to get Ed out of his riven. He shook his head slightly dislodging a piece of brown hair from behind his ear that Janie had noticed could never be tamed, no matter how hard Ed pushed it back behind his ear every day. It would still escape. Janie thought it was the roguishness part of him refusing to be tamed. Or at least that's what she hoped it meant. Ed's mouth opened slightly revealing the whites of his bottom teeth. He looked as if he didn't know what he was doing.

"Yes." he said. When Janie stood to reach out for the paper she received an odd response. Ed backed away and then realised with wide eyes what she was reaching for, and then said (or rather shouted slightly) "No!"

Janie jumped at the rough tone and sat back down into her chair, an involuntary reaction.

Ed huffed out a breath and apologised, "Sorry, Janie, I hadn't heard you properly. I apologise for shouting at you, I didn't think it would come out that way." He held the drawing out slightly and continued, "This is homework, I'm afraid…I don't think it will be done for some time." He frowned again and stared down, "I need to get it _perfect_." He almost mumbled it.

Janie nodded and smiled slightly, "I understand." She knew, even if Ed didn't realise that she knew, that Ed could be very meticulous when it came to his drawings and his work. If it wasn't right, it wasn't right – he was a bit of a genius, and that's why Harry Bennet put up with him. Janie looked back at her computer screen with the illusion that she was continuing with work, however even that was difficult when she could still feel Edward's stare on her increasingly reddening cheeks.

"Do you find me handsome, Jane?" he asked inquisitively, shocking her almost out of her chair.

Immediately she answered, "No!" as she stared at him with her mouth gaping wide, doing a splendid job of impersonating a goldfish. Her mouth bobbed up and down like she was panting for air. And she was afraid that soon perhaps she would be. Right now, her lungs seemed to of stopped working out of sheering embarrassment. Of course she found him attractive. He was the only man that she did find attractive! She just couldn't tell him that.

Edward laughed suddenly easing her embarrassment. She smiled coyly and wished she could crawl under her desk and hide there. Of course, she at least tried to not let embarrassment show. "Not even a little bit?" he asked again, simply teasing her. Janie didn't quite know how to react. She looked down and smiled happily (and slightly deliriously) to herself.

"Ah, a true smile," he said grinned down at her. Again, that equally wiped the smile off Janie's face. However, Edward was not fazed and he simply stood there smiling. And then suddenly, from nowhere, his expression faltered and he grew morose. The lines in his forehead appeared and his dark eyes where intense and focused on something far, far away from the office and from Janie. And then he called her given name softly, "Jane," he said in that deep voice of his that could do very strange things to Janie's equilibrium. "I was wondering, if you would like to, perhaps on your day off, like to—"

_Beep-Beep, Beep-Beep_

Edward's phone had interrupted them. However, it was the look on Edward's face that Janie noticed, not the persistent, shrill ringtone. If he looked morose and contemplating before, Janie didn't know what his expression was now. It was downright self-loathing. He took his phone out of his back pocked with slow motions and sighed when he looked at the screen. It buzzed another two times and without saying anything he left, answering the phone as the office door hit him on the way out.

* * *

Darcy had been in a meeting for several hours with his cabinet this morning and when he came back to his office and shut the door, wanting to seal the outside world shut, he thought it would have stopped. But no, and who was he kidding, this was his job now. The country didn't work on the hours nine to five, it ran every day, all day. So why should it surprise him that, another two hours after that, he was currently discussing the President's visit with Gardiner.

"I'll deal with it, I'm sure." Darcy said as he guided Gardiner to his office door. The man was still discussing the problem (or soon to be problem) when Darcy held the door open, "When the time comes, we shall know how to act, but right now and until we hear the President's stance, there is little we can do but prepare."

Gardiner huffed at the thought of even hearing the President's stance. It was inevitably not going to be good for their future polices. "Well, Darcy, you have a fine head on your shoulders but you have yet to tangle with the President." He patted Will happily on the back and gave him a quizzical look, "Let us see how we fare."

With that, the door was shut and Darcy was in the peaceful sanctuary that was his solitary office again. He looked about the room and then collapsed into his chair, his body sagged and tired. And then there was a knock on his door again.

Sighing and pushing himself to sit up straight in the chair, Darcy murmured an "Enter" and watched the wooden door push open.

"Ah, Elizabeth," he said as he recognised the figure approaching his desk. She handed over a brown folder and nodded back, "Sir."

The fluttering feeling in Elizabeth's stomach, she noticed with annoyance, wouldn't go away when she looked at him. It was rather unnerving and slightly inappropriate to feel such things for her boss. And for that matter, the leader of the country, who by anyone's standards (well, that was someone who hadn't been brought up in boarding school or had tea with the Queen) was far out of her league. After all, she was just a simple girl who happened to be an intern in Downing Street. Elizabeth saw herself as nothing special, she went to University and was studying – but so were half the country. She was just a girl from a working class family. Who was she too fancy the PM?

Rebuking her stupid, foolish emotions, Elizabeth walked to the door as smoothly as she could without looking suspicious and opened the door. She heard a murmur of 'Thanks' from behind her and went to leave.

"Elizabeth, wait for a moment." Darcy wasn't sure what he was doing. All he knew was that he needed more time with her, more time to know her. She stopped and turned around to face him, her dainty hands placed over her abdomen. He moved to the front of his desk and leaned on it slightly, "Sorry, it's just, working in such close quarters and me barely knowing anything about you, seems very elitist to me and very wrong. Would you mind?" he asked, half hoping that she would somehow say no to his request – as he hadn't the foggiest idea what he was actually doing.

Elizabeth smiled, albeit reluctantly, "I don't mind. What would you like to know? There's not much really." She stepped forward back into the office and stood before his desk, and before Darcy himself. She hadn't really noticed how tall or lean his figure was until now as he leaned back against the mahogany desk. Tailored in fine pin-striped grey suit trousers, a bright white shirt and polished dark burgundy dress shoes, he looked the epitome of casual elegance. Elizabeth had noted over the weeks that William Darcy always looked elegant, but not in the slightest way did it take centre stage. Never was there a comment made about his dress sense, even though he was probably the best dressed of all British Prime Ministers from the beginning of time, but it was his dominate personality that caught the headlines. He was never one to back down, and he had already earned the name of "the Stag" by the public, hitting at the core of the country's problems and not backing down.

They had been standing (and leaning) for a short amount of time in silence, but Darcy felt like he would burst if she kept looking at him like that. With that certain glint in her eye that he couldn't quite place…

Right, Darcy thought, he needed questions. "Well, I remember Mrs Reynolds saying you were at University?" Elizabeth nodded. "What do you study?"

"Politics actually, sir." She smiled then and tucked a piece of brown hair behind her pierced ear. He smiled back, and at the coy gesture.

"Ah, got the bug have you?" Darcy knew all too well what a passion for politics meant and how easy it was to get caught up in it. "It's not an easy game, I tell you that, and not as half as glamorous. So, do you see yourself sitting here one day?" He gestured to the desk he was leaning on.

"Well," she said, "Perhaps in the chair." She joked and smiled tilting her head to side to look at the chair behind him. Darcy looked back and laughed, "Ah, well, yes perhaps not the desk."

Elizabeth was caught up slightly by Darcy's smile and the glint in his eye that only humour could bestow. It was truly a magnificent sight. He too was staring back, and she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking – if he was thinking the same things about her as she was about him. If indeed he thought about her at all. Moments passed and neither had talked, both had just looked.

When Elizabeth realised this, she immediately began to speak, "Well, I don't think I would be cut out for the front role, all the _responsibility_. I would probably do best behind the scenes."

Darcy nodded. He looked at her for a long moment and then moved the conversation on, "Another question. Well, erm, I suppose where do you live would be a good one?"

Easy question, Elizabeth thought with an inner sigh. "Meryton. The dodgy end?" she said with a clear voice. Darcy wished he could listen to that clear accented voice more often. But that was a ridiculous thought. And certainly not likely to happen.

"Ah," Darcy said clicking his fingers together, recognising the place immediately, "My friend Charles lives in Netherfield, just around the corner from Meryton I believe."

"Oh right, yes that's right." It was a strange thought for Elizabeth to know that the Prime Minister with all his obvious upper-class upbringing had been around _Meryton_ of all places…even Netherfield was borderline potential stabbing area for the unaware pedestrian.

"So which part of Meryton is the dodgy end?" Darcy asked, wondering if he would need to send Elizabeth home with a police escort if the place was _that_ bad. He'd been there occasionally and had always managed to get lost – only for Charles to find him wandering aimlessly outside his next door neighbour's house. It wasn't exactly Darcy's fault, all the houses looked the bloody same around Meryton, it was a wonder that anyone found their way around there.

Elizabeth scrunched up her face slightly, her nose wrinkled at the bridge as she thought of an exact location that the Prime Minister would recognised just as easily as before. "Just off from the high street, Longborne Street, just past the Old Nag's head?"

Darcy nodded empathically, "Yes, that is dodgy." Perhaps _two _police escorts then…

Elizabeth made a little mummer of agreement in the back of her throat and made sure that her errant hair was tucked firmly behind her ears. It was a marvellous sound to Darcy's ears. And then the question that had been floating around in mind for the duration of their conversation was finally voice…thought not intentionally.

"And you live with someone…?" he asked, almost nonchalantly, "A boyfriend, husband…children?" God, why did he feel there was a golf ball stuck in his throat? He shifted slightly on his perched seat but he didn't look away from her.

It was here that Elizabeth shuffled slightly on her feet. He had made her uncomfortable. She looked down at her booted feet and shrugged, "Well it's the middle of my last term at university, so I'm back home for a while actually." He hadn't not noticed how she hadn't mentioned if she was attached or not. That irked him somewhat, that she had not truly answered his direct question, but in reality what really bothered him was thinking that this beautiful, clumsily charming woman in front of him was taken by another. He dared not admit it to himself though.

"Actually," she continued, this time looking point blank at him, almost with a curious expression. Elizabeth had no idea why she was going to tell him this, but some part of her wanted to see the Prime Minister's face when she did so, "I've just split up with my boyfriend, if you could even call him that. That's partly the reason I'm back at home. We lived together."

Darcy nodded, "Ah, sorry." He had said it out of curtsey, and he was truly upset by the mixed emotions he could see playing out over her face as she talked, but there was still the part (the very, very foolish part of him) that was so deliriously happy to hear that she was single.

"No, it's fine really," she reassured him, "He said I was getting fat, that I was letting myself go." She's said it with a hurt sting in her voice. She pulled her red cardigan around her waist as if to hide herself from view.

Darcy stood up, "I _beg_ your pardon?" he said it with slight outrage in his voice that he couldn't even begin to hide. How could anyone think Elizabeth Bennet was anything but perfect – in any shape or form?

Noting the almost violent reaction from Darcy, Elizabeth looked down, his proximity befuddling her senses and continued, "He said that he couldn't be seen with me, not in the state I was in. That no one would look at him and think of him with potential employability if he had a girl with thighs the size of tree trucks on his arm." Elizabeth smiled sadly and shrugged, "Wasn't a very nice guy in the end."

Darcy was seething. He held his composure and turned away from Elizabeth to sit back at his desk. Elizabeth was wondering what was going on with Prime Minister. It wasn't good whatever was going on in his mind. She backed away slightly and headed towards the door. How foolish could she have been to share with the Prime Minister the sordid details of her love-life? Feeling utter and foolishly stupid, Elizabeth held her head up slightly, refusing to acknowledge her folly. When she was almost at the door, the Prime Minister spoke up; "Elizabeth," he said, making her turn her head to face him. His face was unreadable, and what he said next made her surprising laugh out-right, "I could have him murdered." He smiled slightly (almost joking) and tilted his head waiting for a response.

Elizabeth smiled brightly and fully. Darcy couldn't' believe the beauty of her rosy cheeks over her fair skin, or the dimples it created at the sides of her mouth. "Thank you, sir," she said with a nod of the head, "I'll think about it."

Darcy nodded and gave her leave to go. For what seemed like the umpteenth time, he watched as she slid out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Immediately after the door clicked shut, his head fell to the desk. With a groan he banged his head twice on the hard surface. Why, had he even said that? Promising murder (even if in a jovial way) was _not _how Prime Ministers were meant to use their power.

He turned his head, his left cheek still flattened on the desk, making his normally sharp features all squidgy and flat. Looking around he spotted the Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, staring down at him with knowing eyes. "Did you have this kind of problem?" he asked, his words being muffled by the wooden desk. She looked at him blankly, Darcy sighed, "Course you did, you saucy minx."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry guys that it's been a while. Thing, like always in my life, are pretty hectic. I'm juggling this writing malarkey and then lectures, work and the impending doom that is ESSAY DEADLINES! ARGHHHHH *cowers in corner, rocking with textbook.*Anyway, I haven't really had time to read through this and I haven't posted anything in a while so I'm really sorry if there's mistakes. I'm sure you can forgive me? :D So, enjoy, review and spread the word of Austen! Oh, also, new followers, I'd like to say Hi to – so yeah, Hi and hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it.**


	8. Truth Can Never Be Seldom Mistaken

"**Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken."  
Jane Austen, **_**Emma**_

* * *

Frank Church stood backstage sipping fresh spring water slowly from a bottle, staring out past the cameras and at the presenters chatting away with their current guests. Emma watched him from across the room with squinted eyes and malicious thoughts traveling through her mind. Gianna Fairfax was close by, chatting away to one of the production guys no doubt about the lighting for Frank's delicate complexion. Oh, how she despised the man. And his glorious, yet stupidly silky hair. How on earth did anyone get their hair looking so luscious?

Emma wouldn't put anything past Frank to gain the perfect appearance inside and out. He would have sold his soul to the devil before going out of the house without his outfit being perfect. That had always been the downside of their relationship. Frank had always hogged the mirror. And well, Emma knew she was vain and pompous the best of the times – however humility had hit her over the course of the past years, and she had learnt her lessons in the end – but Frank Church, the enigmatic rock star was the most pompous ass Emma had ever met.

She watched him as he eyed the presenters with an eagle's eye, watching how they responded, how he could get the best performance out of them, only to make his performance outshine Emma's. Of course, they had been booked on the same time slot. Frank was to have the interview first and then Emma. George, who was currently boring/biting the head off some poor runner about show times and shouting "What do you mean you can't change the slot!?" very loudly in the studio, was sadly unable to do anything about the absurdity of this interview. The programme producers had failed to mention that this was a _double_ interview and that Frank Church would be pitted against her in the promotion of the Christmas number one.

They had arrive this morning, looking fully worn out and downtrodden because of the early morning start. Especially Miss Bates, she looked positively dreadful with her curly hair bunched up in clumps around her small head and her last night's mascara smeared under her eyes. Emma had a right mind to fix poor Miss Bates in make-up this morning, but when Frank Church and his entourage appeared an hour later, she had all but forgotten about Miss Bates and her mascara problem. Instead she had spent the next three hours staring Frank down – from across the room of course.

George, finished with the poor runner, came over and stood next to Emma, "I'm sorry Emma," he said in a low voice, "I couldn't move the slot. Production won't allow it. There's little I can actually do." He sounded very forlorn and hated the fact that Emma was saddled with Frank Church, of all bloody people. Everyone knew the back story of Emma and Frank, and that's why this segment today was such a media sensation. It was surprising that George hadn't heard anything earlier before the ambush.

"It's fine George, I can handle Frank." She sounded extremely determined. George followed her gaze and saw Frank sipping at his water and stoutly ignoring Gianna as she tried to talk to him. Gianna's face was blank, that of a woman who didn't understand what was happening around her. George tapped Emma on the shoulder, "Emma, you're wanted in make-up." Emma warmed at the soft touch, "I'll be back soon." And with that Emma watched as George walked over to where Frank and Gianna were standing!

"What the hell are you doing?!" she whispered frantically, holding her throat to steady her voice. She watched gobsmacked and feeling slightly off-kilter as George's lean frame moved towards Gianna, stoutly ignoring Frank's charming words, and began talking to her. Emma would have stood there all day with her mouth hanging open in an unflattering manner if she could. However, the make-artist tapped her on the shoulder and had to practically drag her over to the make-up booths. She sat her down and began chatting away to her about the weather and asking mundane questions like "Where on earth did you get your highlights done? They're fantastic." Emma replied on automatic pilot, not really listening to the women who started pasting foundation onto her face. Instead her eyes were focused on George and how he was actually _conversing _with Gianna. They had been talking and laughing – Gianna now was laughing at something George had said. But George isn't remotely funny, Emma thought with a frown. The make-up girl asked Emma to close her eyes, and she did. George was a big boy and he could talk to whoever he wanted to talk to….but why Gianna of all people?! Emma shot her eyes open as soon as she heard Gianna laugh again. She sat up and watched them laugh and giggle with each other. George was standing very close to Gianna she noted, and Gianna was smiling…and Emma couldn't see for the make-up station…she moved her head slightly to the left and titled out her chair, the make-up girl tut-tutted and moved to continue, even with Emma in that strange, uncompromising position. Emma spied them again, just before the girl moved in front of her view… Gianna had her hand resting on George Knight's arm!

Emma shot up out of her chair making the make-girl jump and curse at Emma's slight over-reaction. Something rose up inside Emma, something that every one of her feelings revolted against. Suddenly, watching George laugh and play merry with Gianna Fairfax made Emma feel wrong, even guilty. She sat deflated back into her seat. Emma sighed and rested her left cheek on her hand. Likewise the make-up woman sighed. With a quick glance at the mirror in front of her, Emma saw that brown eye shadow was smeared across her forehead. She smiled slightly and then sighed at the sudden weight that lay on her chest.

"George is quite the charmer, isn't he, dear?"

Emma flinched at the smooth, amused voice next to her. She didn't have to turn to know who it was who sat in the make-up chair next to her. Frank.

He was lounging in the canvas backed chairs, his legs crossed at the ankles and his

"I am amazed you should think such a thing, Frank." She said coldly, fully welcoming the distracting presence that was the make-up artist, "Wouldn't that be undermining your own allure?" Emma tried to sound vaguely uninterested in what Frank was talking about. But, she was afraid that whatever was going on with George and Gianna right now was unfortunately her only interest.

"My dear Emma, that is an impossibility." He chuckled and smiled his charmingly polite smile at Emma. Ah, that old thing – the smile which had made her week at the knees with love for him. That wasn't going to work any time soon. She eyed him out of the corner of her eye, keeping her head trained forward towards the mirror.

"What are you playing at, Frank?" she asked almost impatiently.

"Emma!" he exclaimed, faking shock, "You think I have a different end to this other than getting the Christmas number one?" He grinned broadly, "How _gothic_ of you." He was amused and rightly so, Emma was playing exactly into his hands. He laughed and leaned back into his chair as his own make-up artist started to work on him. Emma just tried to ignore his presence and sat back comfortably into her chair and tried to block out the hushed tones of George and Gianna's conversation.

"And so it begins again…" murmured Frank almost absentmindedly to himself, however Emma knew that it was actually meant for her and her alone.

Rising to the bait, Emma sat up straight (making the make-up artist grumble) and addressed Frank, "What are you jabbering about now?"

Frank's amusement knew no bounds, he began to chuckle and addressed the brown haired make-up artist who was brushing his face, "She's awfully blunt, isn't she?" He grinned his signature grin at her and the girl reddened and looked laughingly at Emma. She simply scowled back. Frank waved the girl away with a wink and leaned towards Emma in his chair, the harsh lighting from the vanities only highlighting Frank's strong cheek bones. He smiled and looked back at George and Gianna who were still amazingly in conversation. _Hadn't they run out of things to talk about already_? Emma thought with annoyance. Frank looked back to Emma and asked with hushed tones, "My dearest, have you ever, by chance, had time to reflect over the _degree _of acquaintance between George and Gianna?"

Emma froze slightly in her chair for a second. But a second was enough for Frank, he had caught her. Hook, line and sinker. Emma looked at Frank and then went to pick up a free lipstick from the vanity in front of her, "What are you saying, Frank?" She placed the lipstick on her lips and began to trace their pattern.

Frank jumped out his seat and moved it closer to Emma's so she could see his reflection in her mirror as she put on the lipstick. Emma groaned and shifted slightly in her seat, trying to put distance between them. "What I mean, dear," he said looking at her with his startlingly blue eyes in the mirror, "is perhaps when our relationship was on-going, that theirs was just flourishing?"

Her eyes caught his and she put the lipstick down. He grinned quickly and then when Emma faced him, his face went expressionless – the serene breaker of bad news. Emma's eyes were drawn over to George, and she watched him. He was in rapt interest in Gianna. She had never seen him so engrossed with another human being. Perhaps Frank was right? Surely, Emma thought, George could not see fault in a creature like Gianna Fairfax, with her fair voice, skin and unscarred visage. No, Gianna had no fault. Not like the faults George saw within Emma. The faults he was all too happy to point out. Of course, he wouldn't dare mention her voice…he was a gentleman.

"Not possible…" Emma said, almost uncertain. Frank watched as Emma looked over at George with an unknown longing. "They have been too long apart."

Frank breathed and spoke, "Old flames can always be rekindled, if the flame was strong in the beginning." She looked at him then, his face impossibly close to hers. Across the room, George had finished his rather surprisingly delightful, and insightful, conversation with Gianna and had started to walk towards the make-up station to find Emma. It was then that a sight stopped him in his tracks. Emma and Frank were incredibly close. Touching distance definitely…kissing distance, which was all too possible. George froze, unable to comprehend the scene and the shocked emotions that filled his thoughts.

Thoughts whirled in Emma's mind; of George, Gianna and their possible relationship. She could not believe it. She _would _not believe it. But there was something, and she didn't know what, that seemed to fit. That thought almost shattered her as much as it confused her. However, it seemed almost logical that while Emma and Frank were together that George and Gianna, as they managers, could have formed some sort of affection for each other. The thought made every fibre in her body want to scream.

Something then tickled her cheek and she soon snapped out of her riven. Emma jumped when she realised how close Frank and her were, they were almost intimate. She was about to pull back when George's voice called her name, "Emma," he said and she glanced up pulling away from Frank and her confused thoughts. She heard Frank's chuckle at George's arrival and his apology but she was too engrossed with the good and caring man in front of her. George stood behind the vanities regarding her with confusion and an emotion she could not being to understand in his eyes. They marred his smooth, olive skinned features until finally he broke their contact. He scowled at Frank who was trying to be charming and jovial. George simply ignored his presence with cold distain and addressed Emma, "You're on now. They're calling for you in five minutes. You better get up there."

"You'll need this," he said quickly placing something solid on the table in front of her. With that, George walked away and moved over to where Miss Bates sat eating her homemade sandwich behind the cameras. She began talking away to George excitedly and George simply listened to her.

Emma still slightly off-kilter stood up and took the solid object from the vanity and moved over to where her and Frank were ushered into the specially appointed 'Green Room' from where they would enter onto the set and have their joint interview. Frank was ushered on first and he smiled warmly at the cameras and sat down on the red plush sofa in front of the two presenters. Top of the Charts was an extremely high rating music show which featured all the latest music releases. It was no surprised that Frank Church would have had an interview. He was pretty much a Legend now in the music business. But how Emma got a spot (which probably was due to the fact that her and Frank's breakup had been so bitter) was mostly due to the tireless efforts of George. She thought of George again and inevitably that led to Gianna – and the worst possible thought came into her head. Those two together… she flinched and decided to put it to the back of her mind.

Soon it was her time to be called on set. She walked down the brightly lit tunnel and emerged waving and smiling as if she had never thought about George and Gianna in her life. After all, if it was one thing Emma could do, she could perform. Perhaps not sing now, but she could perform. The presenters smiled and welcomed her to the show. Emma sat next to Frank at a friendly distance and tucked her skirt underneath her as she sat.

"Welcome back guys," the female presenter (for the life of Emma she couldn't remember their names) said to the camera, "Along with the mega-star Frank Church we now have Emma Wood, nineties pop-icon and proclaimed Grunge Princess." The female presenter smiled brightly at Emma and said "Emma, it's great to have you back on the sofa with us!" She had said it as if Emma had taken a toilet break instead of a long absence from the music industry. The presenter was obviously the more enthusiastic one out of the two presenters – that was the thing Emma never liked about TV, they always skimmed over the brutal truth. To the world inside the set, it was as if Emma had never had a drug problem, never lost her voice and never actually left the music scene for a significant number of years. No, it was like she had never left. She knew, and George knew, that the people wanted a friction filled interview between her and Frank. This wasn't about music, it was about gossip. She decided right then and there was she wasn't going to give it to them. She smiled and addressed the over enthusiastic presenter, "Thank you, it's great to be back."

The woman's eyes widened as she heard the rusty cadence of Emma's voice. Emma pretended not to notice as the presenter's bright white smile fell slightly from her face.

The male presenter kicked in then, "So, Emma, it looks like there's real competition for this Christmas number one." The man's thick black eyebrows rose and wriggled suggestively, "Especially between you two!" he laughed and waited for some sort of snide comment from Emma, which he wasn't going to get.

Emma coughed, "Yes, I agree with you there, but after all it's all about the music not the competition." She smiled softly and nodded empathically. Frank, out of the corner of her eye, she could see was grinning at her frim resolve.

He chimed in, "Yes, I agree with Emma, Philip. Let the best song win!" he chuckled and grinned at the female presenter; she giggled slightly and blushed under her heavy layer of blusher. Emma caught sight of Frank's expression and tried not to roll her eyes on camera.

The presenter called 'Philip' smiled and looked down at his cards, trying to find something juicy to cling to. With a nod he found it. "Well, I suppose the biggest question everyone wants answered is if you guys are amicable now?" He looked at both Frank and Emma for an answer.

Frank got there before Emma could, "I think we are rather _amicable _wouldn't you say, dear?" He smiled and wiped his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. An audible sigh could be heard from both presenters and the crew as no doubt the camera zoomed in on Frank as he bit down on the corner of his lip. He addressed the female presenter, "Emma always was very _traumatised _when our relationship ended, Holly, we didn't see her for months. But now," he said pulling Emma into his embrace, "We are better friends than ever."

Emma glanced at Frank, watching the humour dance around in his eyes and smiled. She wanted to scream, to hit him hard where his ego would burst, for him to know what it felt like to be abandoned and alone in rehab calling for the only person you thought loved you, who you thought understood you. "Yes, _friends_," she agreed and turned back to the presenters. Except she had never been truly alone in that clinic, George had always been there. George was her constant. And that was why his betrayal hurt all the more. Had he been in contact with Gianna, or even Frank, over those many months? Had they seen each other, been with each other while she rotted away the drugs in her system?

"But," Holly, the female presenter, butted in, "only last week Frank here was damning your record in the press as 'a Christmas cop-out by a washed out singer.' Surely this amicable relationship you two seem to have is a new occurrence?"

Oh, the girl had journalistic claws! This was interesting.

Emma refrained from getting angry. She had never seen or heard anything of the sort from Frank in the newspapers this last week. And that was when she realised that George had probably kept it from her, perhaps to protect her feelings. _Just like he kept his relationship with Gianna from me_, Emma thought before she could try and block the feelings that rose up against that idea. Emma smiled at the presenter, who had a hint of victory in her gaze. "Yes," Emma said, "I had heard that Frank wasn't particularly fond of my record, but then again who is?" Everyone around her laughed and she smiled happily to the cameras.

Philip broke up the awkward laughing and addressed Frank, "Now, I understand that you've both got a prize for our competition winners this week?"

"Yes, I do, Philip," he said with a grin. He gestured for someone to bring something over and one of the runners wheeled out a glass encased poster, several 'Frank Church' t-shirts and a signed addition of his new CD. "Oh, whoa, this is very impressive." The female presenter chirped in.

"Thank you, Holly," Frank said as he dished out some t-shirts, "These ones are for you guys."

Both the presenters smiled and thanked the o-so-great Frank Church for his customised t-shirts and being a fabulous guest of the show.

"And Emma," said Holly holding her pink t-shirt to her chest, "I see you have a prize too for the winners." She nodded at the object in Emma's hand and Emma looked down at what George had given to her before. _A Marker Pen? _

Surely they could have thought of a better prize than a marker pen? George must have been caught off guard to give them something like this. Emma twisted the cylindrical object in her hands and stood, "Yes, I do, Holly. It's a personalised felt-tip _pen_." Both the presenters gave her a wary look and watched as she approached the glass poster in question. "It's amazing really, it even rights on glass." Emma pulled the lid off the pen and pointed with the tip at Frank's poster, "So if you have a framed picture, like this one of Frank, let's say…you can just write whatever you want on it."

She could just about hear the panicked squeal emerge from Frank's glossed lips as Emma began to write, "I have a tiny prick" in a speech bubble around Frank's stylised head. She suddenly felt very powerful and very happy. Getting your own back, even with a petty bit of graffiti was always fun.

Holly gasped as she read the sentence, and Philip murmured "There are kids watching, Emma" as he smiled uneasily at the camera and the audience back home. Emma smiled and turned to the face the camera, "Oh yeah, hi kids." She glanced down at Frank as he sat bewildered on the sofa, "Here's an important message from your Auntie Emma." She pointed at the camera with the marker, "Don't buy drugs," she said it with absolute authority; "Become a rock star, and I'm sure Frankie here will supply you with them for free."

Surrounded by shocked gasps and the presenter's quickly hurrying on to the next segment, Emma walked off the set and back to the green room to collect her things. She was already out of the building and walking to her car in the underground car-park when George stopped her, "Emma, what the _hell_ do you think you're playing at!?"

Emma turned and faced George, she was still upset at his likely betrayal, and it no doubt showed on her features. It was like George Knight to fall for a small, broken bird-like creature like Gianna Fairfax. Her flaws could be fixed to give away to perfections; however Emma's could not and never would be fixed. They scarred her body inside and out like a burnt mound on the green country landscape. It stung thinking of how George who had been by her side all those years had not of told her about his affection for Gianna Fairfax. If only he had told her plainly, she might have taken it a different way. But he had not. He had kept the truth from her from perhaps the beginning? Emma shook her head at the familiar, warm-hearted man standing before her and shook her head. Was this just conjecture, sprouted out by the venomous Frank Church for no other reason than his own amusement? She didn't know, both seemed just as plausible as the next.

"George," Emma said unlocking her Skoda with her keys and propping open the door, trying to ignore George. "Please just don't."

He saw something in her eyes that begged him to stop, that told him to stop questioning, and simply comfort her. All that was put aside when he thought about what he had witnessed; her close proximity and intimacy with Frank Church barely an hour ago. He had seen how she had moved to meet him and how if George had not interrupted they would have probably kissed. Would she of truly done that to herself again and become Frank's pet-toy? He would not believe that, even with the evidence presented.

"Emma, what is going on?" he asked, holding onto the car door making sure she wouldn't leave without talking to him first. "What happened in there—"

"Just stop!" Emma cried, holding her head in her hands, "Just stop George, I cannot take any more of your criticisms!" She went to get into the car and George held the door firmly open.

"My _criticisms_? Is that why you just made yourself a laughing stock on national television?! Jesus Emma, radio was enough. Now you have publically humiliated yourself by your foolishness. You have proved yourself to be uncaring and underserving of the happy situation you are in now."

"_Happy_!?" Emma exclaimed, her voice aching as she did so, "To be made a laughing stock out of? To have the entire public listen to my shattered voice and ridicule it? That is not happiness George, nor could it ever be." Emma sighed, "I had to watch you my manager and only friend suck up to the competition. I saw how friendly you and Gianna Fairfax where." Emma hated the bitter tone of her voice as it stung with sudden jealousy.

"Gianna isn't you enemy, Emma. If you actually talked to her you would see that she thinks very fondly of you. Surprising really, what with your on-going attachment with Frank." George said rubbing his forehead in exasperation. Emma looked at him in confusion not truly understand what he was angling at. _An on-going attachment?_

George spoke again, "For God's sake, Emma, _why_ are you doing this?" He dragged his hand through his grey hair and gestured to Emma, "You're hurting only yourself not anyone else. And you are certainly _not_ hurting Frank Church."

Emma groaned hopelessly. Emma was almost ready to sink under his disapproving brow, the dread of ever upsetting him. But he had unintentionally upset her. "My vain spirit has never done me wrong before, George, why are you questioning it now?"

"You are proving yourself to be utterly ridiculous." He said it bluntly without feeling. "Your attachment to Frank has no doubt muddled your senses. Whatever poison he has dripped into your ear, you should not listen to it. Gianna had proved to be very insightful when it comes to her client, and her situation should secure your compassion Emma, not your contempt! It is not pleasant for you but I will tell you the plain truth. It was badly done, Emma. Badly done indeed."

Once all been needed to say, George stalked away back into the studio no doubt to apologise to the producers and tie up the loose ends that Emma had left splayed around the place.

Emma jumped into her car, embarrassed and very much ashamed of herself. She continued to look back, trying to see his figure but it was all in vain. She was annoyed beyond what could have been expressed and almost certainly beyond anything she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was forcibly struck. The truth of his statement and criticism, there was no denying. She knew he was right, and she didn't like that one bit. So it was right there in the dim car-park that she sat in her off green Skoda and broke down, sobbing, wracking her chest until it hurt.

* * *

**A/N: So this one is a short little chapter dedicated to Emma and George. This doesn't really fit the "Love Actually" plot line but I really enjoyed writing this and twisting it up a bit :D Again, I haven't had time to proof read it so any comments on that would be appreciated. Go easy on me! :D So anyway, review and read and most importantly enjoy!**

**Also, any UK readers – I wonder if you can spot who the two presenters were alluded to in the Emma/Frank interview! It would be good to see if anyone can figure it out :D**


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